tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229Sun, 27 Nov 2016 18:13:02 +0000Picakenmissions#riproninCosta Rican FOOTBALLCosta Rican coffeeDangerous and GoodEl Chupacabra is my favoriteGraceHead and Shoulders cures everythingI am never not tiredI had to edit a lot of bad words out of this postJason BoyettJell-O salad is bombJesus loves Jell-mehNegotiating with GodParroting JesusPiecakenRed for HaitiRonin ShimizuSTMSecond language acquisitionShort term missionsSomebody please give my husband a jobThankgivingVW stands for very worst not venereal wartsWIMSeriesWTFWomen in MinistryWratha shameless plug for an excelent ministryand piercing Christiansassumptions ive made about lemmings and christiansbeer can hatbloated walrus on a turkey bingebrotherscelebrity worshipchristianismschristians should be hard workers especially the ones getting paid for itcoffeecoffee addictioncool mk in Costa Ricacrappy advicecrazy dessertcrazy missionarycreative creatorcreepy moldcrocodile under the beddead chameleondeadly bacteria in mouthdocumentarydoubtdumbeating disorderseating kid germsembarrassing spanish speakereverything you ever belived about lemmings is a liegrody thumbsguest posthey flight stewardhighway robberyhow many thanksgiving meals does it take to kill a missionaryhow missionaries do ithttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifi am a spanish speaking loseri am the luckiesti have poop in my hairif you googled Golden Shower you should really read this insteadis this really going to help peopleits not cool for missionaries to bragkarmalame missionaryleave the money on the dressermarital blissmissions sucks sometimes but it totally worth itmuffin-top gospelmy husband can kick your husbands footballmy life is a train wreckmy liver cant handle all this cheap wine plus communicable diseasenerd kidsneurosisongoing case of heebie jeebiesoogy thumbspie baked into a cakepie in a cakepie is from Godpiercings and Christianspleasepoor parentingpost-holiday flubpoverty in costa ricapractically famous missionaryprecario poop fingerspretty pleaseraising kids in missionsrelationshipsrollercoaster anticsscary missionariesstupidtalk radio is cooltalking about money is the worstthat cockroach was kind of an aholethe great lemming conspiracythese incredible united statesthis really is 15 feet from my front doortransparent lifewaist line disasterswarning you WILL get fat on a cruisewhen dirty kids attackwhy is this so freakin hardwierd thanksgivingwise councelworshipyes i am aware that only nine people read this blog that's why its funnyyou are so not funnyJamie the Very Worst Missionaryinappropriate remarks, embarrassing antics, and generally lame observations from an American Missionary.http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)Blogger415125JamieTheVeryWorstMissionaryhttps://feedburner.google.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-5637342021942676629Thu, 16 Jun 2016 09:30:00 +00002016-06-16T02:42:49.476-07:00On Pulse.<br />My family listened to news of&nbsp;<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2016_Orlando_nightclub_shooting" target="_blank">a mass shooting at a gay nightclub in the U.S</a>. unfold on an AM radio station as we drove through the arid Karoo region of South Africa. Far from home, far from the internet, and far from the ensuing flood of public opinion, we did the only thing we could, we mourned with those who mourn. By the time we returned to the noise of the world, a few days later, I still didn't know what to say. Nothing felt adequate, nothing felt appropriate. In the face of such evil,&nbsp;nothing felt right coming from the straight, white, middle-class American enjoying a dream vacation with her family. The truth is, I didn't have anything important to say, except for "I'm sorry." I am so very sorry.<br /><br /><b>At a time&nbsp;such as this, it&nbsp;seems&nbsp;far more valuable that we hear from my friend Jenna. Jenna has something important to say.&nbsp;</b><i>I&nbsp;pray we will listen</i>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>.....................................................................................................................</b></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HQaGKTzaq1U/V2JpT3FiL3I/AAAAAAAACHo/QKlfOR-2un8uG-PtXPV1x7tJPFGkaFxhACLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-16%2Bat%2B9.52.05%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HQaGKTzaq1U/V2JpT3FiL3I/AAAAAAAACHo/QKlfOR-2un8uG-PtXPV1x7tJPFGkaFxhACLcB/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-16%2Bat%2B9.52.05%2BAM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;">I was recently asked if the shooting at the Orlando gay club, Pulse, has made me feel less safe as a queer person. After giving it some thought, I have to say that no, this has not shaken my sense of safety. It can’t shake my sense of safety because as a queer person, I never had one. I cannot internalize this event as an anomaly, or a threat to some non-existent security. I keep coming back to this event as the logical outcome of a gun-enthused, patriarchal, homophobic, white supremacist society.&nbsp;</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;">In my own political journey, it was the Aurora shooting that most profoundly changed my understanding about guns and how unsafe we are with them. I was raised to see events like this as tragedies that, unfortunately, cannot be avoided, and perhaps even as the price we pay for “freedom.” After watching the events unfold after that shooting in the theater in Colorado, I realized that there was actually a lot we could do to curb gun violence – we were just refusing to do it. And then Sandy Hook. And then Charleston. And the countless others. And now this. Why should I expect anything different when we have done absolutely nothing to address the problem? Will we be magically healed? Was I supposed to exist under the delusion that this would never happen to my people? Every time they happen, I internalize mass shootings in a way that I don’t internalize other tragedies. For whatever reason, they have deeply impacted me. And now I think about them almost every single day – almost every time I’m in a crowded room. I have come to expect nothing different although they grieve me to my very core. As long as we continue to exist in this violent, gun-saturated culture, this is exactly what we should expect. I’m genuinely not sure why anyone is acting surprised.&nbsp;</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;">And as for sensing a heightened threat to my queer body, I do not. This is only the logical outcome for our homophobic society. I was coming of age, coming out, and coming in to my queer identity during the wave of young queers taking their own lives in the early 2010’s. I remember hearing about Tyler Clementi at 4:30 am as I was opening my downtown San Francisco coffee shop, counting in my register through tear-blurred eyes. When you live in a culture that says you are less-than, wrong, sinful, disgusting, invisible, you don’t have to wait for someone to do physical violence to you. You become brain-washed, your body colonized, and you will do to yourself the violence that your country, your culture, your religion, and even your own mom and dad teach you that you deserve.&nbsp;</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;">I remember feeling at that time like I had to do something. I know that I escaped my own colonized hand only by the luck that I had one or two adults who saw me, loved me, and taught me to love myself. Besides that, there is no good reason that I have survived. I think a lot of us felt similarly after those events. So we fought and we continued to fight. We talked and continued to talk. We tell our stories and we yell from the rooftops to young people that it gets better, that we love them, and that we are waiting for them with open arms.&nbsp;</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;">This resistance has won some of us some things, yes. But when the colonized people say that we will no longer act out the violence against ourselves that the colonizer desires, the violence doesn’t stop, but comes from the colonizer more directly. And so we see the continued American tradition of gay men getting the shit beat out of them, the continued American tradition of trans* women of color being murdered in the streets, the continued American tradition of queers being assaulted in their own bars. And once trans* people, a people who so strongly threaten the gender dichotomy on which the patriarchy depends for its very existence, begin to gain by becoming more visible, why should it surprise me that a club full of queers of color get slaughtered? Does it break my heart to the point of little eating, little sleeping, violent nightmares, days of crying and wanting to just hold my queer chosen-family? Yes. Does it enrage me to the point that I cannot concentrate and feel like I want to scream for as long as my lungs allow? Yes. Does it make me want to follow my wife around like a puppy dog just so I can be near her because I feel so shaken and she is the safest person? Yes. Does it surprise me? No. Does it threaten my sense of security? To what fucking security are your referring?</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;">Every time I step out of my house, I feel the weight of my haircut beaming violent attention to myself. Every time I hold my wife’s hand in public, I fear the insults, and god knows what else, that might be hurled at us. Every time I walk into a public bathroom I wonder if this will be the time that I get profiled and assaulted. Every time I walk into the men’s section of a clothing store, I feel the generations of hate and disgust as I flip through the sizing tags. Every time I stop for gas on a road trip, I am hyper-vigilant, wondering if there will be a man there who will desire to “teach me a lesson,” <i>Boys Don’t Cry</i> style. These feelings never leave me.&nbsp;</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b></b> </div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;">Straight people, cis people, white people – do not be fooled into thinking that the marginalized have won. We are still living in colonized territory. The events this weekend in Orlando are just the newest reminder of that fact. At a vigil, I saw my 14 year old queer friend. Looking at his beautiful young face, I burst into tears thinking that we had failed him. He was supposed to grow up in a different world. He was supposed to feel safe and to live in a world where he could be free. Those were our goals. But he is colonized just as we are colonized, just as our queer ancestors were colonized. As long as the white-supremacist, homophobic patriarchy is in place, none of us are safe. As long as the NRA owns Congress, we will continue to see mass-shootings. The events at Pulse are a threat to me and to queers everywhere. But as long as we continue to support the status quo, they will upset my sense of safety no more than the current cultural and political atmosphere, because what happened at Pulse is only the logical conclusion to it, not a departure from it.</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>............................................................................................</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SfZx3a3XdbU/V2Jp9dvLNYI/AAAAAAAACH0/RDXlHkIdYew_iyO7P_qUNMM0XU6-jWTTQCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-16%2Bat%2B9.57.07%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SfZx3a3XdbU/V2Jp9dvLNYI/AAAAAAAACH0/RDXlHkIdYew_iyO7P_qUNMM0XU6-jWTTQCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-16%2Bat%2B9.57.07%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SfZx3a3XdbU/V2Jp9dvLNYI/AAAAAAAACH0/RDXlHkIdYew_iyO7P_qUNMM0XU6-jWTTQCLcB/s200/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-06-16%2Bat%2B9.57.07%2BAM.png" width="199" /></a></div><br /><blockquote style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;" type="cite"><b>Jenna is a Ph.D. student in Hebrew Bible at UC Berkeley</b>. She is interested in biblical narrative and its social function. She lives in Oakland with her wife, Malka, and their precious pooch, Leviathan.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;helvetica neue&quot; , &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">It's no secret, Jenna is my favorite. &nbsp;</span><br /><blockquote style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;" type="cite"></blockquote><blockquote style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" type="cite"></blockquote><blockquote style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" type="cite"></blockquote><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/Sd4gIj10R-4" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/Sd4gIj10R-4/pulse.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2016/06/pulse.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-9055355331875244385Fri, 29 Apr 2016 00:02:00 +00002016-04-29T08:10:19.891-07:00Last Days in the Desert<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A long time ago, in a desert far, far away, I found myself standing in a half-circle with a handful of professional Christians on a film set in the middle of effing nowhere. I was invited there, along with a pile of smart people, for a sneak peek at a little indie art house production, written and directed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rodrigo_Garc%C3%ADa_%28director%29" target="_blank">Rodrigo Garcia</a>. The film, <i><b>Last Days in the Desert</b>,</i> imagines Jesus toward the end of his famous 40 days of prayer and fasting, as his journey intersects with that of a boy and his parents, dwelling in the desolate dry wilderness. While Satan continues to pluck at his insecurities, Jesus finds himself drawn into the little family's plight, as they grapple through sorting their lives. The screenplay was short, the dialog sparse, the cast and crew minimal, and I was super curious to see how this would play out on screen.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dmBHmQ4tasA/VyKgmH1Gr5I/AAAAAAAAA-Y/-UEy4PPf4AcwFw6a1tSfD33FeAo6XswcACLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-04-28%2Bat%2B4.35.25%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="443" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dmBHmQ4tasA/VyKgmH1Gr5I/AAAAAAAAA-Y/-UEy4PPf4AcwFw6a1tSfD33FeAo6XswcACLcB/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-04-28%2Bat%2B4.35.25%2BPM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cast, crew, dirt.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Shortly after we arrived on set, actor <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000191/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Ewan McGregor</a> came over to shake hands and introduce himself to us, one by one, saying, “Hi, I'm Ewan...I'm Ewan, nice to meet you...I'm Ewan, how are you?...Hey, I'm Ewan...” Like we might not know he was Ewan. When I called home that night, my kids asked what <strike>Obi Wan</strike><span style="text-decoration: none;">McGregor was </span>like, and I told them the truth. <b>“He was kinda like a homeless person...but, like, if a homeless person's eyes were made of the Caribbean Sea.”</b></div><div align="RIGHT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's true. The guy I met was gross and dirty, and I don't recall him actually smelling bad, but he looked like he probably smelled bad. Let's just say, I did not have the urge to run my fingers through the greasy mess of matted hair that hung limp from beneath his head wrap. And, much to my own surprise, I had zero desire to make out with Ewan McGregor's crusty mouth or to allow his gritty hands anywhere near the small of my back. In fact, after we shook hands, I quickly wiped mine off on the side of my pants like an asshole. I'm not sure what they used to make his finger nails look so painfully dry and dirt-caked (it was probably some expensive, organic, rejuvenating Hollywood makeup artist's magical witch potion), but it looked like mud and poo, and it made me feel icky. I was honestly having a hard time reconciling the hot mess in front of me with the charming Scottish boy-toy of my dreams, and my body felt confused.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vICMkWBAJR0/VyKgZPmTYmI/AAAAAAAAA-U/BHJVn_28hhAWtGPL4s_6RTINEEwzHf1dwCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-04-28%2Bat%2B4.34.57%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vICMkWBAJR0/VyKgZPmTYmI/AAAAAAAAA-U/BHJVn_28hhAWtGPL4s_6RTINEEwzHf1dwCLcB/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-04-28%2Bat%2B4.34.57%2BPM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See what I mean?&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><br />In his defense, McGregor was aptly dressed for his role as Jesus, but this was not like any version of Jesus we're accustomed to meeting in films about the iconic religious figure. This was not a powerful, omniscient robe-clad Jesus, or a kind-eyed, forgiving Jesus. This was not a beaten, bloody submissive Jesus, or even a smiling, warm, welcoming Jesus.</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><b>This was Jesus, <i>fully man. </i></b><br /><div style="font-weight: normal;"><i><br /></i></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">It was a rare depiction of the Jesus who “grew in wisdom and stature”, who learned and matured, Jesus who asked questions and sought answers, because he didn't always have them. This Jesus appeared tired and tattered, disheveled and uncertain, physically sapped by the conditions of the desert, emotionally stunned by the expansive silence. Hungry for the love of a distant Father. Thirsty to hear His voice.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Human.</i></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's been a full two years since I read the manuscript, talked with the director and a couple of the producers over lunch, met the actors, and watched a little bit of the action on set, but – FINALLY - last Sunday in a darkened Episcopal church in Pasadena, I got to see whatever came of Ewan McGregor's dirty Jesus, that lonely little family, and the last few days in the desert. </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Nutshell? <b>It was so good. And I cried. </b></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Want more? Ok, fine.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RDfySDiGeh8" width="560"></iframe><br /></div><br /><i>Last Days in the Desert</i>isn't so much a story about Jesus, as it is the story of fathers and sons. It's about boys becoming men, being both brave and afraid, simultaneously clinging and letting go, searching for independence while seeking approval. It's about grown men who still somehow long for assurance from the men who grew up before them, and the generational handing over of a broken baton. It's about wanting to do the right thing, but maybe not being quite sure what the right thing is, or who you're doing the right thing for.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The relationship between fathers and sons is perhaps the most complicated of all relationships, and we see layer upon layer of it here through the musings and complaints of the father and son in this story; A father who loves his son desperately, but can't say it, and a son who desperately wants his father's blessing, but can't see it. The Devil (also played by Ewan McGregor) is insightfully aware of this timeless father/son tension, and uses this to try to speak doubt into Jesus' own attempt to connect with his father, God. </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Disclosure: As the mother of THREE SONS who, at 22, 18, and 16, are each smack in the middle of this exact same kind of coming of age bullshit, I felt the struggle and the pain and the longing of the son so keenly it made my heart actually physically hurt. His desire to be recognized by his father, to please his father, and, at the same time, to be free of his father's ideas and expectations made me ugly cry.... UGH. NOW I'M CRYING AGAIN! </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">*sigh*.<i>...Anyway. </i></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>In a world where Christians are greedy for blockbuster, feel-good movies with high production values and low thought content, <i>Last Days in the Desert</i> is almost ridiculously low-key in its approach to Jesus. </b>We are never told what to think about the deity of Jesus. While there are some elements of faith and mysticism, which leave room for theological debate, the film is uniquely and refreshingly free of doctrine. During a panel discussion after Sunday's screening, Garcia described his imagining of Jesus in the desert – obviously inspired by the 40 days of fasting found in Christian scripture – as being "reduced" to its most basic elements. Much like the desert itself.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This reductive simplicity of the story is perfectly echoed on screen by cinematographer, Emmanual Lubezki (Yes - Gravity, The Revenant - <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0523881/" target="_blank"><i>THAT </i>Emmanual Lubezki!</a>), who shot every outdoor scene using only natural light. Every sweeping expanse, every endless landscape, every radiant crevice, and shadowy corner came to us directly from nature. The beauty of the desert as seen though Lubezki's lens is breathtaking in an <i>epically organic</i> kind of way. (You should really, really, really try to see this on a great big screen in a theater. I'm not even kidding. You'll thank me.)</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Last Days in the Desert </i>is far more of a spiritual/psychological think piece than your average faith based film. It's artistic. It's raw and rare, and a little bit uncomfortable. While box office flicks like <i>God's Not Dead </i>and <i>Risen</i>&nbsp;seem to have become the Bible tract of the 21<sup>st</sup> century (a cheap, easy way to tell anyone who will listen about the saving power of Jesus Christ without having to actually, y'know, get to<i>&nbsp;</i>know<i> </i>them) this artsy-fartsy indie film will likely leave you and your friends with more messy questions than tidy answers.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But maybe that's the point.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b>..................................................................................................................</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Last Days in the Desert</i><a href="http://www.lastdaysinthedesert.com/#theaters" target="_blank"> premieres May 12/13th in select theaters across the U.S.&nbsp;</a>&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Or request a showing in your town <a href="https://www.tugg.com/event_requests/new?movie=last-days-in-the-desert" target="_blank">HERE</a>!</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--zAkfZlObz0/VyKi4dttUfI/AAAAAAAAA-o/BjaLo_sf36MFkmZf5FO90EhAOTOymBIggCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-04-28%2Bat%2B4.48.23%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--zAkfZlObz0/VyKi4dttUfI/AAAAAAAAA-o/BjaLo_sf36MFkmZf5FO90EhAOTOymBIggCLcB/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-04-28%2Bat%2B4.48.23%2BPM.png" width="636" /></a></div><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D9055355331875244385&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F--zAkfZlObz0%2FVyKi4dttUfI%2FAAAAAAAAA-o%2FBjaLo_sf36MFkmZf5FO90EhAOTOymBIggCLcB%2Fs640%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2016-04-28%252Bat%252B4.48.23%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 42px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3214px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D9055355331875244385&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F--zAkfZlObz0%2FVyKi4dttUfI%2FAAAAAAAAA-o%2FBjaLo_sf36MFkmZf5FO90EhAOTOymBIggCLcB%2Fs640%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2016-04-28%252Bat%252B4.48.23%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 42px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3214px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/kJEmu6XL6pk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/kJEmu6XL6pk/last-days-in-desert.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2016/04/last-days-in-desert.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-913523107341525911Wed, 20 Apr 2016 22:22:00 +00002016-04-20T16:14:04.788-07:00Missionaries probably shouldn't be jealous of a strippers. But sometimes they are. <div style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm&nbsp;really looking forward to </span><a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/p/booking.html" target="_blank">speaking</a> <span style="font-family: inherit;">the <b>Love Made Claim</b> annual fundraiser this Saturday, in Denver, CO. If you're in the area, YOU SHOULD TOTALLY COME! (</span><a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/love-made-claims-2nd-annual-denver-shindig-tickets-22511954863" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">ticket info here</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">) Anyway, I was&nbsp;sitting here&nbsp;preparing my talk, when I&nbsp;remembered&nbsp;this old post from back&nbsp;in the day, so I&nbsp;thought I'd throw it out there again, for old times sake.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">I still think&nbsp;about this girl... I wonder if she's still working in the sex-industry... and I wonder if she knows her great worth...</span></div><div style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://lovemadeclaim.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dYOjlxVXUls/Vxf89NuSAcI/AAAAAAAAA9w/NNr_M3F-cAwqYICsO3_4-nobiKeCRcxgACKgB/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-04-20%2Bat%2B3.04.03%2BPM.png" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lovemadeclaim.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Check out Love Made Claim, Inc.</span></a></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br />The other day I boarded a plane from Reno to San Francisco, and I was stoked because there was no one else in my row, and I wanted to read People magazine, but I would never want anyone to see me reading People magazine because I have a serious aversion to freaks who carry on weird, one-sided relationships with famous people. (What!? People is the fastest way for me to see how out-of date my clothes are. That’s all. That’s why I read it. Sheesh, <i>let it go.</i>..) ANYWAY. You can imagine my dismay (and also how quickly I shoved Sandra Bullock’s tragic smile back in my bag and pulled out Sedaris’ <a href="http://amzn.to/1Sll4JW">Me Talk Pretty One Day</a>) when someone stopped at the end of my row.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">It was a girl, and she was wearing one of those tight black velour matching two piece sweatsuits with fake Uggs. When she turned around to shove her crap in the overhead, her butt said “Juicy” which, in my opinion, has about the same sexual appeal as having the word “Pfffffft” stamped across your rump. But, I'm old, so what do I know.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Despite her fashion sense, the truth is, she was&nbsp;</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">gorgeous. GOR-geous!&nbsp;</span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Like, twenty years old, with perfect skin and teeth and hair, and glossy, fake nails on soft, smooth hands. And her body was long and lean and seemingly flawless.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>And I&nbsp;</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>immediately</b></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>&nbsp;did not like her.</b></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now, I’m not generally a jealous person. Seriously. I don’t really get jealous. I more, like...</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">covet,&nbsp;</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">but I don’t really get jealous, as in envious. Sometimes,&nbsp;I want things that other people may have. I&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">want</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;more money, I&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">want</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;a smaller butt, I&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">want</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;to be 5’9”, I really, really&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">want</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;a maid, and an admin, and a personal masseuse. And if you possess those things, I will probably covet them. But I usually don’t harbor feelings of hostility or rivalry toward people that have what I want, and&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">that’s</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;what I mean by jealous. It’s just not one of my go-to character flaws. Or maybe it’s just not as well developed as my other junk. Either way, it’s not my main thing.&nbsp;But this time, this time I was having these wild, crazy, JEALOUS thoughts.&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Mean</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;thoughts.&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Cruel</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;thoughts. Thoughts that were turning this girl, with whom I had never even shared a single word, into my&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">mortal&nbsp;enemy</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Because I'm such an asshole.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was busy hating her in my heart, when I turned on my overhead light and opened my book, and as the plane started to taxi toward the runway, my stupid light burned out. Then, that awful girl&nbsp;looked over and offered a sympathetic smile, with her perfect, plump lips, and teeth like gleaming white chiclets. We both reached up and started pushing buttons and twisting knobs, trying to get my light to flicker back on, and she yanked on something a little too hard and the whole plastic casing came off in her hand. We looked at each other with huge eyes like “Oooh damn!” and then we both started snickering like third graders in the principals office. Snickering became giggling, and giggling made way for laughter, and by the time we were in the air, we were howling as if it was the funniest thing that had ever happened in the history of the world.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I know, in retrospect it's not really that funny, but</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>&nbsp;that’s how I became instant BFF’s with a stripper from Reno.</b></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">We began a conversation that was mostly stupid and boring and, occasionally, intensely personal. And yes, she</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;really</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;is a stripper...I mean,&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">”dancer"?</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">. She was on her way to California to visit her sugar-daddy.&nbsp;(Which, technically, I think makes her something other than a stripper, er, dancer, but whatever.)</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">We both pulled out our trashy magazines, and poured over the clothes of the rich and famous. We talked about our lives, as different as they are. And we talked about God. And when we didn’t talk, she pulled out her Sudoku book, and I thought,&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>“Oh,&nbsp;awesome. She’s prettier&nbsp;AND&nbsp;smarter&nbsp;than</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>me</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.”&nbsp;But, I noticed&nbsp;(because, apparently, I’m kind of a creeper)&nbsp;that when she got bored with her puzzle, she would scroll her name in cursive, again and again, along the edges of the book. Practicing her autograph? Signing her first name with some guy’s last name? Trying out a flashy new stage name? I really don’t know. All I know is that she was daydreaming as she wrote that name, all fat and swirly, over and over and over again with a glittery pink gel pen.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was struck by how sweet and girlish this was, and it reminded me of how I used to do the very same thing when I was younger. In high school,&nbsp;my friends and I used this stripper name formula to decifer our pole dancer personalities : First family pet + street you grew up on = your stripper name.&nbsp;</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Mine is Heidi Oaklawn.</b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Maybe it sounds weird, I mean, since I’m a missionary and everything, but I could totally relate to this stripper, with her Juicy pants and spray tan. El Chupacabra and I have a little running joke that if our lives hadn’t turned a certain direction at a certain time, today he would be in jail and I would be in a nightclub. We laugh about it, but we know that it’s really not that funny...but it's probably not be far from the truth. If things had gone differently, you could be reading the blog of&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>Heidi Oaklawn, the Very Worst Stripper</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;right now. Or maybe you wouldn’t be. Or&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">maybe you would....</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Anyway, when we parted ways in San Francisco, it was clear to us both that we shared some sort of connection. Call it stripper’s intuition, but there was something there, between us. We hugged and quickly said goodbye....*sigh*</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Juicy disappeared into the crowd, and as soon as she was gone, I realized that all of my envy had melted away, and only one thing remained. Before we'd gone our separate ways, I wished I'd told her something that had been nagging at me as we talked; I wanted her to know that</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>God is jealous for her.</b></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>And I was jealous for her, too.&nbsp;&nbsp;</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Not jealous</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;of</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;her, and</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>&nbsp;</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">not the envious kind of jealousy that makes a missionary act like a bitch on an airplane when a hot stripper starts to sit next to her. But jealous&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">for</span></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;her. Jealous in a different way. Jealous with a longing, loving, hope filled kind of jealousy.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I was jealous for her to know that she’s worth more than the dollar she gets for swinging around a pole in clear, plastic stilettos, or the thousand that she’ll get for spending a weekend in San Francisco with some dirtbag she met on the internet. Jealous for her to feel love apart from sex. Jealous for her to daydream about her own name in a way that didn't have to include fame, or fortune, or dancing naked for men. Jealous for her to know that,&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">if she can do Sudoku? She can do&nbsp;anything!</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;">This is the kind of jealousy that begs for a change in direction.&nbsp;</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;">God is jealous for us to turn away from the distractions of this world and turn toward him. He’s jealous for us to let go of the false identities we hold onto so tightly, and to align ourselves with Him. He’s jealous for us to relinquish the things we allow to define our worth, and grab tightly to our value in Him.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>Our God is jealous for her.&nbsp;</i></b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>And for you.</b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>And for me.</b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>......................................................................</b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>So, the obvious question is, what would&nbsp;</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>your&nbsp;</b></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>stripper name be?</b></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div></div></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D913523107341525911%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dallposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dallposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-dYOjlxVXUls%2FVxf89NuSAcI%2FAAAAAAAAA9w%2FNNr_M3F-cAwqYICsO3_4-nobiKeCRcxgACKgB%2Fs640%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2016-04-20%252Bat%252B3.04.03%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 33px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 204px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D913523107341525911%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dallposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dallposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-dYOjlxVXUls%2FVxf89NuSAcI%2FAAAAAAAAA9w%2FNNr_M3F-cAwqYICsO3_4-nobiKeCRcxgACKgB%2Fs640%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2016-04-20%252Bat%252B3.04.03%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 33px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 204px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/791Psvb212E" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/791Psvb212E/missionaries-probably-shouldnt-be.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2016/04/missionaries-probably-shouldnt-be.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-5381690269781512887Tue, 09 Feb 2016 22:58:00 +00002016-02-09T15:14:41.509-08:00How Going on Vacation Might be Better than Going on a Mission. <div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The other day someone asked if we have any big plans for this summer, and El Chupacabra and I looked at each other and smiled because we do have big plans for this summer. We have<i> really big </i>plans...</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>WE'RE TAKING OUR FAMILY TO AFRICA!&nbsp;</b><b>WHAT?! I KNOW!!!&nbsp;</b></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>I CAN'T BELIEVE IT EITHER!!! SQUEEEEE!!!!!!!!</b></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When we shared our big news, we probably should have expected her response, but it still caught us off guard when she said, “That's amazing! Who will you be working with?”</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We glanced at each other, “...Working?”</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Yeah. Like, what organization are you partnering with? What are you going<span style="font-style: normal;">to do </span>there?”</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And then it got awkward, because we were all, “Ooooooh. Oh. Yeah. No, it's not like that. <span style="font-style: normal;">We're not going on</span><i> a mission, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">we're</span> going on <i>vacation... </i><span style="font-style: normal;">You know, j</span>ust for fun. Entertainment. Relaxation. Adventure. That sort of thing.”</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">She blinked and looked confused.</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N2cVjUgW9kA/VrprNzfSNUI/AAAAAAAAA8M/xOZBr2vFM2U/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-09%2Bat%2B2.38.01%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N2cVjUgW9kA/VrprNzfSNUI/AAAAAAAAA8M/xOZBr2vFM2U/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-09%2Bat%2B2.38.01%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I guess that's understandable. I can see how it might be counterintuitive to imagine a Missions Pastor and a writer who has the word “missionary” in the title of her blog taking their kids to Africa and <i>not </i><span style="font-style: normal;">going on a mission. But that's exactly what we're doing. We're going to fly all the way across the world, and then we are </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;">going to dig a well, we're </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;">going to hold any orphans, and we're </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;">going to treat anyone's parasites (unless, of course, they're our own). We will not be seen in matching T-shirts or praying in a circle at the airport, and you won't catch us “loving on” complete strangers with sweaty hugs, zealous high fives, or bullhorn street-corner evangelism.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The habitual short term missionary (the one who collects passport stamps crossing the planet on the support-raised dime of the Church to participate in safely organized service opportunities) will have a stroke if they read this, so maybe don't send it to them. </span></span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Or do</span></span></i>. But, for sure, choosing fun over field will have some people questioning my love of God, my commitment to Jesus, and my very salvation. </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>Behold, she chose a family vacation over a Christian mission</b></span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>and, lo, there was a great clutching of pearls.</b></span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Here's the thing. I've lived abroad, traveled a bunch, willfully participated in </span></span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and </span></span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">happily hosted short term teams, crossed paths with people from all walks of life and faith and culture, broken bread with the wealthy elite and the poorest of poor, and conversed with some of the most educated and experienced leaders in the global church movement, and it's all led me to this conclusion:</span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">G</span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>oing on a kickass vacation can be healthier, more productive,&nbsp;</b></span></span><b>and more beneficial</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b>&nbsp;to both the traveler and <i>the world</i> than a short term mission.</b></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I've come to believe my money is better spent in the hotels, restaurants, shops, gas stations, parks, monuments and attractions that provide legitimate jobs and dignified work to the very same locals I would otherwise be <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2014/11/blessed.html" target="_blank">“blessing”</a> on a short term mission trip. Tourism is a gross domestic product, an industry that creates layers and layers of real, sustainable jobs for a countries workforce. I'd wager&nbsp;that it's far kinder and more generous for you to leave a tip and a favorable comment for the woman who cleans your hotel room each day, than for you to show up on her doorstep with your selfie stick and a bag of rice once a year (#blessed). When you vacation somewhere, you're contributing to a healthy demand for everything from the edible goods of the rural farmer who might otherwise sell his child, to the administrative services of the urban student who might otherwise sell herself. When you vacation in the places you'd usually mission, you're engaging people's pride and joy without exploiting their shame.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I know, I know – What about all the other stuff? Like, what about showing our kids how other people live? And what about exposing our pampered teenagers to poverty? What about getting uncomfortable? What about learning to serve others?&nbsp;</span></span></span>Every single time I speak on missions at churches or universities, these questions come up. And every time this is what I say:</div><ul><li><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I have an intrinsic desire to see the whole entire world and to show as much of it as I can to my kids. I believe this is inherent in me as a human, because we are drawn to the work of our Creator. I believe it can be a form of worship and I believe it can have value. BUT. It is not the Church's responsibility to send me or my kids all over the world for the purpose of “exposure”. If you think it's that important, you should sign your kid up for a foreign exchange program and pay for it yourself, or with grandma's help or whatever. As much as you and I both want it to be, crossing boarders is it is not crucial to your child's development as human or as a Christian. It's cool, but not </span></span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">crucial</span></span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.</span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span> </div></li><li><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2011/09/using-your-poor-kid-to-teach-my-rich.html" target="_blank">Using poor kids to teach rich kids a lesson about how good they have it is just gross</a>. It's ineffective at best, and incredibly harmful at worst. Plus, it's ICKY</span></span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.</span></span></i></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span> </div></li><li><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You will never get more uncomfortable than in the intimacy of meaningful relationships with the people to the right and left of you, so go love your actual neighbor. Short term missions are more of a relief from the depth and discomfort of real life and real love and real relationship than a true dip into discomfort.&nbsp;</span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div></li><li><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">An attitude of service should be learned at home and applied in the world, not the other way around, so if learning to serve is your end goal, there's no need to hop on a plane to do menial tasks for strangers. I promise, not a day of your life has gone by that wasn't chock full of opportunities to serve others – that's true of vacation days, too – we all just need to be looking.</span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPCZtKMpivg/VrpttUG4cCI/AAAAAAAAA8c/qVhE_NAuttI/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-09%2Bat%2B2.41.02%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPCZtKMpivg/VrpttUG4cCI/AAAAAAAAA8c/qVhE_NAuttI/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-09%2Bat%2B2.41.02%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">omg. <i>I KNOW</i>. I just like the way it sounds. Jeez.</td></tr></tbody></table></li></ul><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So we are going to South Africa, Botswana, and Mozambique, and we're going there on vacation. And that's it. Who we're going with is <i>each other</i>. Why we're going is <i>for fun</i>. What we're doing is <i>cool shit</i>. Oh, and? Who's footing the bill is <i>our own damn selves. </i>We are going to stay in mediocre hotels, visit beautiful national parks, and eat cheap local food. We're going to do touristy things and less touristy things. We're going to see cities and countrysides and all the sights in between. We're going to try all the beers and taste all the fruits and make all the weird noises at all the animals. We're going to get lost once or twice along the way, because that's what we always do on vacation, and we're probably gonna be ok.&nbsp; </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This two week vacation will most likely be the last major trip we get to take with our three grown/growing sons. They'll be marrying and blasting out babies in no time, so this is our nuclear family's last hurrah. It won't be extravagant - we are literally saving&nbsp;<i>pennies</i>&nbsp;to make it happen – but I have no doubt it will be amazing. We're going to immerse ourselves as best we can in the culture and history and people around us. And, yes, we will be on vacation, but we won't turn a blind eye to the poor. And yes, we will be relaxing, but we'll also be doing some hard work in our relationships with our boys and with each other – some investing, and some reassuring, and some healing. We're going on Safari, because HOLY SHIT IT'S AFRICA!!! And we're going with humility, because it's our privilege just to be there.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g-Ut_XmayTw/Vrptqjwve_I/AAAAAAAAA8Y/m-wqYsT4ys8/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-09%2Bat%2B2.51.45%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g-Ut_XmayTw/Vrptqjwve_I/AAAAAAAAA8Y/m-wqYsT4ys8/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-02-09%2Bat%2B2.51.45%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I fully expect to see this EXACT scene.</td></tr></tbody></table><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I hope that we come home changed somehow, better, wiser, closer. And I hope that you'll ask me how our trip to Africa was, just so I can say something like, "OMG. It was AMAZING! I learned way more from Africa than Africa learned from me." And we can LOL.&nbsp;</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b>..........................................................................................</b></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Also? No lie, I'm kinda pissed that Dax and Kristen beat us to this, but we're still totally gonna do it...</b></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vgL3puDfuRg?rel=0" width="640"></iframe> <br /><br /><a href="" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/CN1YaAn6UZg" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/CN1YaAn6UZg/how-going-on-vacation-might-be-better.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2016/02/how-going-on-vacation-might-be-better.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-2928445579717834097Mon, 01 Feb 2016 23:13:00 +00002016-02-01T16:28:00.235-08:00You Can Never Have Too Much Sofa<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>We bought our little house in California one million years ago, in 1997. </b>And it's a good thing, too, because that was the last year our oldest child was our only child, and it was also the last year we could ever have afforded to buy a little house in California.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's a typical, boring, no frills, suburban tract home, but nearly 20 years later, we still love it. The property is just over zero acres, the living space is compact, and the laundry is in the garage, but my kids still like to argue over who will live here when Mom and Dad are dead and gone. I mean, obviously, if we're dead, they should probably sell the house and split the equity three ways (Turns out, it was really smart to buy a house in California in 1997. You're welcome, kids!), but they say they want to “keep it in the family”. Ha! Either way, this house has become part of the legacy we will leave for our sons.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The only real challenge we have in this house is size. Not the house's size, the house's size is fine – we have no desire for a bigger house - it's more the size of the kids that's a problem. My boys keep doing this thing where they turn into men? And then they take up a lot more space with their bodies. It's so annoying. They've become very long people. They are so very lengthy, and they have these expansive limbs that stick our very, very far from their actual bodies. This house has high ceilings, so vertically we do alright, but try sharing a standard three cushion sofa with several people over 6 feet tall. Trust me, it's no bueno. So the primary problem with filling a small house with tall people is that there's no room for big furniture.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>You can never have too much sofa. </b>That's a thing I decided. </div><div align="RIGHT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I don't care what designers and decorators and, y'know, all the rest of the professionals have to say about it. People need a place to lounge. We need space to spread out, get comfortable, and stay awhile. We need to be able to fall asleep on the couch while we're watching <a href="http://amzn.to/1SzhuyX" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Hannibal</a> until 2am, <i>together</i>, but not touching. Lounging is important. Laying around in your pajamas with your kids on a Saturday morning – no matter how long they are – is kinda crucial to the health and well being of your family. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Recently, I noticed that whenever we decided to watch a movie or something, one kid or another would disappear. It took me awhile to figure out that it's because there was no room at the inn. If the sofa was already full of other people's arms and legs and stuff, the last man standing would rather do something else. There just wasn't enough space for my whole clan to lounge at the same time, and that was unacceptable, so a couple weeks ago I filled our itty bitty house with a big fat sectional, yes,&nbsp;<i>including</i> a chaise. Now it looks like my living room is pregnant with Don Draper's sunken sofa, and I don't even care. Do. Not. Care.</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sT5TedJrd98/Vq_hk1LoHWI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/UyF-izKl16I/s1600/IMG_0533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sT5TedJrd98/Vq_hk1LoHWI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/UyF-izKl16I/s400/IMG_0533.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The day after we brought home the monstrosity of comfort, El Chupacabra and I went out to search garage sales for a sofa table to go with it, but it was rainy so we had to look at estate sales. Estate sales are always kind of weird for me, because....well....<span style="font-style: normal;">someone</span><i>died</i>. I know I'm there picking through the remnant belongings of the recently deceased, usually while their loved ones watch, and I feel this massive tension between wanting to be mindful of their loss and hoping for a kickass deal. It's always super awkward. But, at the very first estate sale we found, we came across the most perfect old stereo console. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This thing was hand made almost 50 years ago by the...uh...dearly departed. Like, he MADE it. With his HANDS.<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">H</span>is daughter proudly told us he'd made other beautiful furniture throughout the years, but sadly none of his kids had room for this particular piece. As it was carried out to the car, and I heard one of the siblings take in a breath and say, “Oh, there goes Dad's stereo...” And in the chaos of closing out their father's estate, there was a brief pause for grief. </div><div align="RIGHT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Thus, a tiny part of their legacy became a part of ours.</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of course, the first thing Dylan said when he saw the cabinet was, “Can I have this when you die?”, and Jamison cut in to say, “I'll fight you for it.” They're charming like that. Then they helped get it all set up in its new home behind our massive sofa expansion. It took a couple of hours, but El Chupahandyman got the turn table working and the bass kickin', and our home hasn't been the same. </div><div align="RIGHT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The kids lounge and the music plays and we've been seeing a lot more of each other's faces. </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">To be honest, I don't really care what my kids do with this house after I'm dead and I don't care who wins the funeral fist fight over the stereo cabinet. <b>But I do hope my boys will carry on this legacy of lounging around together.</b> I hope they will actively make space in their lives for the people they love. As the world changes faster and faster, and people see less and less of each other, I hope they will remember the importance of being in the same room as another human being.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Oxa9k38HkDg/Vq_iPhGCTCI/AAAAAAAAA7w/Scy0TFTafME/s1600/IMG_0608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Oxa9k38HkDg/Vq_iPhGCTCI/AAAAAAAAA7w/Scy0TFTafME/s400/IMG_0608.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Side note: I am not obsessed with Navy Blue. OBSESSED.</td></tr></tbody></table><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I hope their couches will be huge and I hope they have <a href="http://amzn.to/1Szb4jf" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">too many chairs</a> around their tables. And when people give them the side eye for having ridiculous furniture, I hope they invite them to sit down for awhile and tell them, “My Mom always said you can never have too much sofa.”</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">........................................................................................</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><b>Are you sure you have enough sofa in your life? Like, <i>really </i>sure?</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D2928445579717834097&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-Oxa9k38HkDg%2FVq_iPhGCTCI%2FAAAAAAAAA7w%2FScy0TFTafME%2Fs400%2FIMG_0608.JPG&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 153px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1666px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D2928445579717834097&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-Oxa9k38HkDg%2FVq_iPhGCTCI%2FAAAAAAAAA7w%2FScy0TFTafME%2Fs400%2FIMG_0608.JPG&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 153px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1666px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/EI9Yl0FO61c" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/EI9Yl0FO61c/you-can-never-have-too-much-sofa.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2016/02/you-can-never-have-too-much-sofa.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-7059446123590859787Thu, 07 Jan 2016 23:14:00 +00002016-01-07T16:34:35.892-08:00You can't give what you don't have. <div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The first time I flew on an airplane, I watched the safety demonstration like my life depended on it. As instructed, I checked that my seatbelt was properly secured, identified the nearest emergency exits, learned how to inflate the life-vest, and noted that my seat cushion doubled as a flotation device. I was keenly interested in everything I needed to know to survive an air travel disaster, and if necessary, I would happily put my head between my knees to prepare for a crash landing and calmly exit the burning plane without my personal belongings, because <i>that </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is how you</span><i> live.</i></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But the first time I flew with kids, something changed. I followed along as the flight attendant skillfully mimed the Survivor's Guide to Falling Out of the Sky; <span style="font-style: normal;">Seatbelt? Check. Life-vest? Check. Butt-floaty? Check. T</span>oward the end of the announcement she held up a severed oxygen mask, showed us how to wear it, and reminded us not to freak the eff out if it doesn't inflate. Then she stood there smiling like a creep while a disembodied voice from the back of the plane chirped, “<i>If you are traveling with a child, secure your own oxygen mask first, then assist others.” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">And I was like, “Yeah. I'm not doing that.”</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-N_JfDeqOX9c/Vo7o6xl8vLI/AAAAAAAAA6s/8jW5DseU0mY/s1600/IMG_0224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-N_JfDeqOX9c/Vo7o6xl8vLI/AAAAAAAAA6s/8jW5DseU0mY/s320/IMG_0224.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>If we're all gasping for air like fish out of water, you can bet your ass I'm putting my kids' needs first. </b></span></span></div><div align="RIGHT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't get me wrong, I completely understand <i>why</i> we're supposed to arrange our own masks before theirs. I know it's safer and smarter and more sensible, but, in that moment, I knew I wouldn't do it. I knew that given the choice and despite the consequences I would never put my need for oxygen before my sons' – even if it meant I passed out and we all died because I was too stubborn and scared and dumb to take care of myself properly before attending to them. </span></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was thinking about this on Friday as I boarded a plane to meet a handful of girlfriends for a weekend away. Feeling excited for the days ahead, I was also pestered by guilt over what felt like a great big self-indulgence. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm definitely not a martyr to marriage and motherhood, but I have always had major hangups about doing things that are </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>just</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">for me, and this was no exception. This is an annual meet-up of dear friends that in three years I had yet to attend, and I <a href="http://amzn.to/1S6YnNu" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">waffled</a> back and forth for 9 entire months before deciding I would go, I was so hesitant to take a short trip that wasn't for work, or for family, or for </span><strike style="font-family: inherit;">hotel sex</strike><span style="font-family: inherit;">marital bliss. It felt incredibly selfish.&nbsp;</span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>But</b><b>I needed a breather. </b></span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b><i>Big time.&nbsp;</i></b></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Honestly? It's been a really tough year around here, and it took awhile for me to see how much I needed a break from this season of intense writing, and hardcore wifing, and momming actual real live grownass men. I needed a little stretch of time away from the very things I felt like I was neglecting if I left, and </span></span>I sobbed when I bought my airline tickets, because it finally sunk in how badly and how sincerely I <span style="text-decoration: none;"><i>needed</i></span><span style="text-decoration: none;"></span><span style="text-decoration: none;">to breathe. </span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">For like 5 minutes I believed I was a worthy cause. But as the girls weekend drew near, guilt crept back in to tell me I didn't deserve a break, my marriage would suffer in my absence, my children would resent me for leaving, and I was selfish and spoiled and stupid for deciding to go, and I actually thought about backing out at the last minute. It was like an oxygen mask had dropped right in front of my face and I refused to put it on. I was simply too busy looking with wide eyes at all the other needs in my personal life to secure my own oxygen, but I was too oxygen deprived to breathe life back into those same areas of need. </span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I </span></span><span style="text-decoration: none;"><i>aaaaaallllmost</i></span><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">backed out.</span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And then El Chupacabra said something <a href="https://vimeo.com/150122015" rel="" target="_blank">in his last sermon</a> that hit me really hard. He was talking about how when we really love people, like, when we really get into the nitty gritty of life and faith with other broken people, it will deplete us, it will stir up our own pain, it will tap our spiritual resources. He said you need to care for yourself in order to care for others, because “you can't give what you don't have.” </span></span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; "You can't give what you</b></span></span></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">&nbsp;don't have."</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ~ Pastor El Chupacabra, aka Steve</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/150122015" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I mean, it's kinda like</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>duh. </b></i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But also? OMG, THAT IS SO ME! </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>So, so, so me.</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trying to pull from empty reserves of physical energy and mental health, desperately drawing from a dry well of faith, hope, and love, to bear the weight of looming financial commitments, to fight for a hobbled, hurt relationship, and to launch young adults into a scary world. That is so me. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I can't give what I don't have.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I haven't been caring for myself in a number of ways and it has absolutely hurt my capacity to care for others. </span></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The reason we're supposed to secure our own oxygen mask first in the event of an emergency is that you can't give what you don't have. You can't expect to breathe life into those around you</span>&nbsp;</span><span style="text-decoration: none;">if YOU can't breathe</span><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">. Your kids, your spouse, your coworkers, your friends, your neighbors, your parents – they really, truly, honestly </span><i>NEED</i></span><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;">&nbsp;you to put on your own mask first.</span></span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I fly often enough now that I don't even bother playing the preflight charades game; I usually read, or sleep, or pick at my fingernails while the flight attendant does the old “in-case-of-death-spiral” song and dance. On my way home after three amazing days with friends, I watched a cranky, overwhelmed Mama trying to settle her young ones around her while she checked seat belts and felt for life-vests and peered over her shoulder for the nearest exit. I saw the familiar flash of resistance on her face when she was told to put her own oxygen mask on first, and I remembered when I was like her, seeing how she was too tired and too empty and too wrapped up in the thick of it - because she been poured out for her family – to choose to care for herself first. And I thought, “I got you, sister. You focus on taking care of those babies, and, if necessary, I'll take care of you.”</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Because that's how it works.</b></span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt like I had nothing left to give, and then I spent a weekend having my heart and soul tended by women who generously dipped into their own reserves to breathe life back into these hollow spaces. With an infusion of joy and light and everything else I lacked, I came home prepared to be a better wife, mother, and writer than when I left.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, on that day, that little Mama may have been empty, but I was full enough for us both.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>That's how it works.&nbsp;</b></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I take care of me,&nbsp;</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">so that I can take care of you,&nbsp;</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">until you can take care of yourself,</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and then you care for someone else.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But someone has to be smart enough to put their oxygen mask on first.&nbsp;</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">....................................................................................................</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><b>Have you ever lost sight of your own needs to&nbsp;the detriment of everyone around you?</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6918305754409517229" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6918305754409517229" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/qdmNWzDQ0YA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/qdmNWzDQ0YA/you-cant-give-what-you-dont-have.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2016/01/you-cant-give-what-you-dont-have.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-5928188488584183408Tue, 22 Dec 2015 18:19:00 +00002015-12-22T10:29:06.339-08:00Jesus, save Christmas.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b><b>I promised myself I wasn't going to be a total grinchhole about Christmas this year.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I also promised I'd have the tree up before December 10<sup>th</sup>, get all the shopping done and gifts wrapped early, give beautiful plates of homemade goodies to all of my friends and neighbors, and not eat my weight in fudge.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FBt3SaMlGOU/VnmTMj5a3LI/AAAAAAAAA6U/pY3crzwzz3Y/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-12-22%2Bat%2B10.13.11%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FBt3SaMlGOU/VnmTMj5a3LI/AAAAAAAAA6U/pY3crzwzz3Y/s200/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-12-22%2Bat%2B10.13.11%2BAM.png" width="198" /></a>The tree went up on December 15<sup>th . </sup>This, after a last minute trip to the forest to cut down a tree where we arrived 20 minutes before closing, scrambled around in the mud and fog and freezing cold to no avail, only to drive an hour back down the hill and buy a patchy, pathetic tree from the Home Depot parking lot. I'm still not done shopping. Nothing is wrapped. I tried to cheat on the Christmas baking by grabbing some easy recipes off Pinterest, and I ended up buying <i>$62</i> in cookies and candy to grind up or melt down to make into <i>other</i> cookies and candy. I don't know why I thought I could just mix Oreo mush with marshmallow fluff and call it a day, but the results were unworthy of gifting and mostly inedible. Except that I did eat it, all of it. P<span style="font-style: normal;">lus, </span><i>double</i><span style="font-style: normal;">my weight in fudge. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>And now I hate everyone. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Christmas just seems to be getting more and more ridiculous, and with a knife-twist of irony, I find myself drifting further and further from Jesus around this time of year. I want to revel in the beauty of God with Us, I want to celebrate the birth of Christ in earnest, I want to delight in the story of Faith, Hope, and Love slipping into the world in a dirty stable on a starry night. I want to rejoice. But it's kind of hard to rejoice in the goodness of baby Jesus when He's buried under a dwindling bank balance, an intentionally ugly sweater, and a small mountain of fudge. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The thing is, I'm conflicted. I really want to participate in our modern Christmas traditions – the tree, the lights, the food, the gifts, the honey baked hams (yes, multiple hams). It's busy and expensive, but it's also fun and yummy, and I am <i>all about </i><span style="font-style: normal;">the f</span>un and yummy. But at this point there is a glaring lack of Jesus in it all, and combined with the utter ridiculousness of the season, it's starting to make my skin crawl. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The other day, I drove down a street that looked like the Macy's parade took a dump on it; one lawn after another covered in massive inflatable characters donning Santa hats, fat limbs bouncing on the breeze, tethers whipping the ground. There was probably $20,000 in huge balloon creatures on that street alone, and, if you ask me, that's a lot of money to throw away on whimsical Christmas fuckery. Don't get me wrong, I'm not immune to the insanity of Christmas spending. We spent $35 on a Christmas tree and hours to decorate it, and no one in my family can even be bothered to plug in the lights. Like, <i>we don't even care</i>, but it felt wrong to not have a tree. So we buy a tree. And it feels wrong not to give gifts, so we give gifts. And it feels wrong not to eat all the fudge, so I eat all the fudge.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Honestly? I barely love fudge. I only eat it because it's there, and it's only there because it's Christmas, and it's only Christmas because of Jesus. So here I am, twisted up in this tension, baffled by the enigma of celebrating Christ's birth by going into debt and gaining 6lbs. It doesn't feel right... but it feels wrong any other way.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>It's like the thing with the manger. </b>You know what I'm talking about? </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I love the Christmas story. I really do. I come back to it often during the holidays, especially when I'm stressed about money, feeling the burden of busyness, frustrated by the exploitation of something so pure and good, and sad when the fudge is all gone. When I need to be reminded that we have a genuine reason to have a huge celebration, Luke chapter 2 is my jam. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But I hate the part about the manger. I don't get it. What's the deal with putting your infant in an animal trough?! What was Mary thinking? Like, why not just <i>hold</i> your baby? Lay him next to you. Give him to Joseph. Ask one of those shepherds to lend a hand. I can think of 20 things that would be better than wrapping your newborn up like a burrito and putting him in a <i>manger</i>. I guess she could have set her first child in a nastyass manger because she knowingly anticipated the theological significance of God becoming flesh in the humble form of an infant, and maybe she liked the symbolism of placing the most important baby in the history of the world in the most humble of cradles, but I don't think so.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I think she was probably just tired and drained and over it. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LAiOfNl_pxc/VnmTKvswwfI/AAAAAAAAA6M/zIzEDGTDsDE/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-12-22%2Bat%2B10.12.19%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LAiOfNl_pxc/VnmTKvswwfI/AAAAAAAAA6M/zIzEDGTDsDE/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-12-22%2Bat%2B10.12.19%2BAM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Come on, neither of you can just HOLD the baby?!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />Whatever. At this point, it doesn't matter, because, while it doesn't always feel right to me, it would feel wrong any other way. The manger feels more familiar and old and real than all the rest of the Christmas bullshit we indulge in combined. A nativity without a manger would feel like some kind of sacrilege. <b>So I can choose to let my irritation at the thought of a newborn baby swimming in a bed of E-coli and donkey slobber ruin the whole story, or I can look at the bigger picture and see that, ultimately, the story of Christmas isn't the story of a manger, it's the story of a Savior. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I don't like the idea of God using a 9 foot blow up snow globe lawn nativity to draw near to the us. I can't even imagine it's possible. But we've seen what He can do with a teen Mom, a poor step-dad, a handful of shepherds, so it's not really out of the question. Even so, I don't want my own attempts at celebrating Christmas to fall into the glittery traps of nothing more than a hollow cultural holiday. I want Jesus to somehow be evident in all of the fun and yummy. I want the whole of Christmas to be a demonstration of how my life is different because of Jesusy things. I want to give gifts out of Jesus generosity. I want to decorate with Jesus creativity. I want to eat Jesus fudge...um...ok. That?....Sounded weird</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Anyway. </i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We've royally mucked up Christmas, I'm quite certain of this. But if there's anything worthy to be found in the gross, materialistic, commercialized mess we've created around the birth of Jesus, it might be the most Christmassy thing of all; that God shows up in the most unlikely places and the most unexpected packages, and then He sets up camp in the most undesirable spaces.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>He is with Us. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Even when we're getting it all wrong. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So Merry Ridiculous Christmas, my fellow Holiday haters. Take heart.&nbsp;</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Jesus can save this, too.&nbsp;</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">.................................................................................</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Are you a Chirstmas Grinchole? Or a Happy Clappy Holiday Apologist? Explain...</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/HgkWZ9ycUpY" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/HgkWZ9ycUpY/jesus-save-christmas.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/12/jesus-save-christmas.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-8436714226807742851Thu, 19 Nov 2015 00:29:00 +00002015-11-18T16:56:13.841-08:00When we are all Priests and Levites.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">On Friday, the world fell to its knees in sorrow as the media brought us the horrible aftermath of a coordinated, multi-site, terrorist attack on Paris. The outpouring of love and support was swift as status updates declared our collective heartbreak, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jamiethevwm/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> became a sea of candle lit prayer and Eiffel tower peace signs, and the French flag graced profile pics far and wide.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The loss of life was terrible, indeed, but it seemed terror itself would not prevail. In the hours following those bloody events, I started to believe the world could not be terrorized by a handful of men with guns. Global citizens stood together in a strong and united front to give wannabe terrorists the finger; <i><b>We will weep with those who weep and mourn with those who mourn, you assholes. But we will not be terrified. Not by you.&nbsp;</b></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><b><br /></b></i></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tJiJwpd2aiY/Vk0V6rB29uI/AAAAAAAAA5w/TbKdKBCCVWw/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-11-18%2Bat%2B4.20.15%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tJiJwpd2aiY/Vk0V6rB29uI/AAAAAAAAA5w/TbKdKBCCVWw/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-11-18%2Bat%2B4.20.15%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because you're cool. And because you're not a refugee.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />But then we learned some of those men with guns entered the city hidden in a stream of Syrian refugees, like parasites riding on the backs of the innocent, and the attack on Paris that appeared to be over swelled to unleash a second, far more powerful wave of terror upon the world. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Governments across the globe have been forced to reevaluate how to handle the mass of Syrian refugees seeking safety and asylum from the very men who may be hiding amongst them. Opening borders to millions of families forced to flee their homes under conditions of indescribable violence and prolonged starvation has become much more than a huge social and economic burden for the countries and communities willing to offer sanctuary to the displaced. Bundled babies and their exhausted Mamas have been contaminated by their mere proximity to danger, while young men and their desperate fathers have more potential to be active carriers of Hate. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The question is, <b>do we let them in? </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The concern is legitimate. It's real. This<i> happened</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. And whether you like it or not, every governing body has an obligation, first and foremost, to its own citizens, their economy, and their security. The risk must be assessed. Parameters must be set. Systems must be enforced.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">But refugees </span><i>must not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> be ignored.&nbsp;</span>Not by the Government, and most assuredly not by the <i>Church</i>.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Far from the compassion and mercy we displayed on Friday, on Monday an embarrassing number of American Christians took to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jamietheveryworstmissionary/" target="_blank">social media</a> to yank the Welcome mat out from under the battered men, women, and children at our doorstep. Fear for our property, our lives, our kids, our faith; fear, fear, fear decrees we MUST NOT take in any of those people.&nbsp;</span>Because <i>what if.&nbsp;</i>What if. There are so many “what ifs” to be considered, but they all boil down to the same thing:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span><b>What if I try to help them and something bad happens <i>to me</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?</span></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And, honestly? That fear? It resonates in my heart. I am afraid.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I </span><i>want</i><span style="font-style: normal;">to Love others. I </span><i>want</i><span style="font-style: normal;">to serve and give and help. I </span><i>want </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to meet felt needs. That's truly the kind of human I want to be, and I believe it's the kind of Christian I am called to be. But, before I help you, I am forever counting the cost to </span><i>me</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.&nbsp;</span>I really do&nbsp;<i>want</i>to help <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2012/11/the-calm-in-storm_28.html" target="_blank">the orphan</a>, the widow, the refugee... but I don't really want it to cost me very much. Actually, I don't want it to cost me anything. So in the face of a humanitarian crisis, I'm tempted to say bullshitty things like, “We don't have to take them in to help them.” And “We can still love them from a distance.” And “We<i> </i>can't be expected to help everyone.” And, I don't know, some other bullshit about a dog bowl full of poisoned grapes, or something.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">But Jesus, you guys. I swear.&nbsp;</span><i>Jesus </i>effs up all my best plans.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">In times of confusion, I turn to <strike>bourbon</strike> the Bible for guidance, but when I cracked that sucker on Monday to cherry pick it for verses supporting my fears, Jesus totally got in my way. He is </span><i>always</i><span style="font-style: normal;">doing this to me. I was trying to find that story where Jacob (or somebody. I can't remember) plays nice with another clan (or whatever it's called) until they're all super chummy, and then he's like “Hey, I have an idea! You guys should totally let us chop off your foreskins.&nbsp;</span><i>All the cool kids are doing it.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” So they do. And then, while their new 'friends' can't fight back because their wieners are sore, Jacob (and his sons?) kill them all. And t</span>he point is, you just can't be too careful when it comes to your life. Or your wiener.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Anyway.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Instead, I landed here...</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bkyeUAf3QjM/VkzynB0NmgI/AAAAAAAAA5I/f9uIQiIXtw0/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-11-18%2Bat%2B1.23.53%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" height="613" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bkyeUAf3QjM/VkzynB0NmgI/AAAAAAAAA5I/f9uIQiIXtw0/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-11-18%2Bat%2B1.23.53%2BPM.png" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Terror turns us into priests and Levites.&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fear will always lead us to the other side of the road, away from the one in need, because fear convinces us that to stop and help is too costly and too dirty and too dangerous.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>So <i>do we let them in, Church</i></b><b><i>?</i></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's true, if we open our borders, doors, homes, and hearts to Syrian refugees (or homeless vets, or <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2012/11/the-calm-in-storm_28.html" target="_blank">foster kids</a>, or recovering addicts, or poor people of any kind), there is a chance that we will unwittingly show love to our enemies. We may even end up getting hurt. But if we choose to avoid our neighbors and ignore their dire circumstances, then maybe it doesn't really matter if a handful of terrorists sneak in to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave behind a family of hungry refugees; When the Church is willing to let innocent people with genuine needs die in the street<i> </i>because we're too scared to get involved, terror has already done its job - it has stolen our identity in Christ.&nbsp;</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>When Christians are too terrified to Love their neighbors, when we are all priests and Levites, the terrorists have already won.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Are we really going to let that happen?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/TmbHILxVuG8" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/TmbHILxVuG8/when-we-are-all-priests-and-levites.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/11/when-we-are-all-priests-and-levites.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-1805895633870187466Thu, 05 Nov 2015 21:50:00 +00002015-11-05T14:12:44.153-08:00Before you get that tattoo...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b style="text-align: center;">On my 40th birthday, I went totally crazy and got drunk and blacked out and woke up with a huge tattoo.</b><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: left;">RELAX. I'M JUST MESSING WITH YOU. </div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I mean, I <i>did</i> get a tattoo on my birthday – but it wasn't a surprise and I wasn't drunk. ...Unless you can get drunk on the Cracker Barrel's “Country Boy” breakfast. If so, I was <i>definitely</i> drunk. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: left;">Regardless, this happened...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Og8Sdw9OZ2Y/Vju3Yg-Sv_I/AAAAAAAAA3Q/8arnIEdzE-U/s1600/IMG_7892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Og8Sdw9OZ2Y/Vju3Yg-Sv_I/AAAAAAAAA3Q/8arnIEdzE-U/s200/IMG_7892.JPG" width="188" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0S-vf6uiPGQ/Vju3YZuEXNI/AAAAAAAAA3M/SDEhCYeMX-c/s1600/IMG_7878.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0S-vf6uiPGQ/Vju3YZuEXNI/AAAAAAAAA3M/SDEhCYeMX-c/s200/IMG_7878.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was this or Botox.&nbsp;</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HyoOaks0wkk/Vju3rcDhWRI/AAAAAAAAA3U/qyUE_C1ABa4/s1600/FullSizeRender-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HyoOaks0wkk/Vju3rcDhWRI/AAAAAAAAA3U/qyUE_C1ABa4/s320/FullSizeRender-6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Might as well have tattooed a Christian fish<br />on my forehead. Hindsight and all that.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A month later, I got color...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CmaPg2TnPSI/Vju3sI2RWZI/AAAAAAAAA30/goxSUSqH1No/s1600/IMG_8658.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CmaPg2TnPSI/Vju3sI2RWZI/AAAAAAAAA30/goxSUSqH1No/s200/IMG_8658.JPG" width="171" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5xiKc_VVgFk/Vju3tYM47WI/AAAAAAAAA4Q/IxROGZnoUHQ/s1600/IMG_9167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5xiKc_VVgFk/Vju3tYM47WI/AAAAAAAAA4Q/IxROGZnoUHQ/s200/IMG_9167.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Look how much FUN I'm having. Needles are SO FUN!!</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IZC_gsn4s4w/Vju3suVIv7I/AAAAAAAAA4U/XaT4awaOsf0/s1600/IMG_8689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IZC_gsn4s4w/Vju3suVIv7I/AAAAAAAAA4U/XaT4awaOsf0/s320/IMG_8689.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I thought I was so cool with my plastic wrap and medical tape.<br />Then I got home and saw my squishy old lady arm looked like raw sausage links.<br />&nbsp;So embarrassing.&nbsp;</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm in love with my tattoo and I don't regret it for a second, but if I'm being totally honest, I'd say there are some things about having a tattoo that I was not prepared for. Like your first sexual encounter, or having your first baby, or eating your first Jimboy's taco, no one really tells you what to expect <i>later. </i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">But </span></span><span style="font-style: normal;">I've been a tattooed person for six whole weeks now, and I've experienced some physical, emotional, and cultural ramifications that took me by surprise.</span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">So, <b>before you get that tattoo</b>, consider this:</span></div><ul><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>A visible tattoo is an invitation for chit-chat. </b></span><span style="font-style: normal;">It's like you're wearing a sign that says, </span><i>“I'm interesting and I have 'a story'. ASK ME QUESTIONS!”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> This is an introvert's worst nightmare. The first time a complete stranger said, “Tell me about your tattoo.”, I was totally caught off guard. I didn't know how to answer, so I stammered, “Well...it's, um...*swallow*...made of ink...aaaand...I like it?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">(I should not be let outside without supervision.)</div></li></ul><ul><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-style: normal;">If people can only see part of your tattoo, they will want to see the rest. </span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Be prepared to hike up your sleeve or push down your sock or undo your belt or whatever, because if the tiniest little bit of your tattoo is peeking out, the hidden parts become public domain. Now the right sleeve on every t-shirt I own is all stretched out and floppy from being pulled over my shoulder no less than 27 times a day – But you can't blame people for wanting to see the whole thing when you're carrying around a work of art. It's just part of the deal.&nbsp;</span></span></div></li></ul><ul><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-style: normal;">Tattoo gazing is awkward for everyone. Or just me. </span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I love my tattoo, and I really don't mind showing it off, but after I yank my sleeve into my armpit so someone can take a good look, it get's kinda weird. Like, how long am I supposed to stay like that? How should I hold my arm? Down? Out? At an angle? Should I flex? Are they still looking? Do I need to stand perfectly still? Where should I point my face? OMG. WHAT DO I DO WITH MY HANDS?!?!&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It is 45 seconds of pure angst. And it's inevitable.</span></span></div></li></ul><ul><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-style: normal;">Tattoos are gross when they're healing. </span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I know you know already know this. This was not surprise to me, as I've gently rubbed many a glob of Aquaphor over El Chupacabra's crusty, flaky, scabby, healing tattoos over the years. The problem is that everyone is super excited to see your brand new tattoo </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">because it's brand new</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, but you don't want to show them how awesome it is until it stops looking like the beginning of the zombie apocalypse.</span></span></div></li></ul><ul><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-style: normal;">Sometimes, certain colors don't like you. </span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Red? Not my pal. The decomposing body stage of tattoo healing lasted a really long time after I had the color done, because Red </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">hates</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> me. It's one of those things you don't know will kill you until you do, but that's why God gave us antibiotics. And if those don't work and your arm falls off? Prosthetics.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cCOPWTM09QQ/Vju3tc3avJI/AAAAAAAAA4M/sozeBJ-kBuM/s1600/IMG_8892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cCOPWTM09QQ/Vju3tc3avJI/AAAAAAAAA4M/sozeBJ-kBuM/s320/IMG_8892.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This doesn't even begin to show the terrible things<br />that were happening in the red zone. <br /><i>...Terrible things were happening</i>.</td></tr></tbody></table></div></li></ul><ul><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-style: normal;">People are people. </span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Again, no surprise. But if you get a tattoo, be prepared to hear the same exact jokes, comments, questions, opinions, and off hand interpretations every day for the rest of your life. “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Did that hurt</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Is that real</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Were you in the Navy?</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Were you attacked by a Sharpie gang?</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">I don't like tattoos.</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">I don't like tattoos on girls.</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">I love tattoos on girls.</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Will you marry me?</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Cool ink.</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Is that new ink?</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">When'd ya get inked?</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">” “</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Did you come up with that idea yourself?</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">”</span></span></div></li></ul><ul> <div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Every. Single. Day.</span></span></div></ul><ul><li><b>Getting a <i>Christian</i> tattoo is the pretty much the same as having a Christian fish on your car. </b>Now I have to behave myself in public. When I'm wearing short sleeves.&nbsp;</li></ul><ul><li><b>Your tattoo will make you a douche. </b>At least for a little while, you will be a tattoo douche. It's like a right of passage. You will stare at yourself and your tattoo in every mirror, window, puddle of water, and shiny spoon you encounter. You can't even help it. You will also find ways to include your tattoo or parts of your tattoo in all your selfies. And everyone else's. It could be on the bottom of your foot, it doesn't even matter, you will find a way because you're a tattoo douche. Don't despair, this wears off pretty fast for most people. <i>Most.</i>&nbsp;</li></ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CStPfm-sEaY/Vju3sItJjLI/AAAAAAAAA3w/OWUBNwTsXok/s1600/IMG_8564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CStPfm-sEaY/Vju3sItJjLI/AAAAAAAAA3w/OWUBNwTsXok/s320/IMG_8564.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who me? I'm just driving...<br />WITH A TATTOO.<br /><br />(That was before color, but I'm still kind of douching out.)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><ul><li><b>It doesn't matter where you live, you should probably go to Kentucky and get your first tattoo from <a href="https://instagram.com/scottbryanttattoo/" target="_blank">Scott Bryant</a>. </b>It sounds <i>a little</i> extreme, but I flew out to Louisville specifically to have this guy do my first tattoo because I knew I could trust him with the rest of my arm's life. He's done incredible work on my husband and my son and my sister, so he was the obvious choice for me.&nbsp;<b>He is a tattoo wizard. </b>Also, he's my brother-in-law -- BUT I WOULD HAVE GONE TO HIM NO MATTER WHAT. I'm so, so, so grateful to him for making my first tattoo such a great experience. (Thank you, Scott!!! I don't believe anything Emily says about you.)</li></ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-INEOW-af6vA/Vju3r-SpX-I/AAAAAAAAA34/JYl_ICnOH9Y/s1600/IMG_8456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-INEOW-af6vA/Vju3r-SpX-I/AAAAAAAAA34/JYl_ICnOH9Y/s200/IMG_8456.JPG" width="196" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--N7fTRivtoI/Vju5s4d6McI/AAAAAAAAA4o/l35EhVDW8C0/s1600/FullSizeRender-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--N7fTRivtoI/Vju5s4d6McI/AAAAAAAAA4o/l35EhVDW8C0/s200/FullSizeRender-7.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You should definitely <a href="https://instagram.com/scottbryanttattoo/" target="_blank">check out his work</a>, connect, make an appointment through <a href="http://acmeinktattoos.com/" target="_blank">Acme Ink</a>, Louisville (or look for one of the other shops around the country where he works as a featured guest from time to time) and get yourself something nice.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>ALL THAT to say: Here is my finished tattoo. I could not be happier&nbsp;with it!</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VB8X0zx_9Ys/Vju4RQ3RduI/AAAAAAAAA4c/TaqhBp-591I/s1600/IMG_8688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VB8X0zx_9Ys/Vju4RQ3RduI/AAAAAAAAA4c/TaqhBp-591I/s400/IMG_8688.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"And what does the Lord require of you?..."<br />Micah 6:8</td></tr></tbody></table></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>If you have tattoos</b>, do you have any other words of advice or warning for me and my fellow tattoo newbies? We're listening, Oh Wise Ones.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>If you don't have tattoos</b>. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR???</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>DON'T FORGET TO TIP YOUR ARTIST, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.</b><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/8Z7XChyMKGg" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/8Z7XChyMKGg/before-you-get-that-tattoo.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/11/before-you-get-that-tattoo.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-6530138486213326563Tue, 22 Sep 2015 20:39:00 +00002015-09-22T13:39:51.759-07:0040 is NOT the new 30<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Forty is not the new 30. Shut up, liars.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>40 is <span style="font-style: normal;">40. </span></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I know this because <i><b>I AM FORTY</b></i><i>.</i> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Last week, I turned 40 entirely against my will. I couldn't stop it, or avoid it, or ignore it, or bribe it to go away. 40 came at me like the Grim Reaper on a bullet train filled with “Over The Hill” mylar balloons and reading glasses. It sucks, too, because I really want to be the kind of woman who ages with dignity and grace. I want to be cool about it, easing into each new year with a sense of pride, welcoming the days that lay ahead. But I am <i>soooo </i>not cool about it. Instead, I am aging in more of a dumpy, clumsy sort of way, flopping around in a fight against the forces of time and nature as if those are things I can actually change. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Needless to say, 40 hit me hard.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As my 40<sup>th</sup> birthday approached, people kept trying to make me feel better about being almost dead. They kept saying encouraging things like “40 is the new 30!” or, even more ridiculous, “40 is the new <i>20</i>!” And I just smiled back and nodded with a look that I hope said, “<b>YOU ARE EFFING DELUSIONAL.”&nbsp;</b>That's a damn dirty lie, that's what that is. And we need to talk about it, because A) You have been the victim of this lie, and you think something must be wrong with you because when you turned 40 you definitely DID NOT feel 30. Or B) You haven't turned 40 yet, but you think you might someday, and you're clinging to the hope that 40 is the new 30, or preferably the new 20.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z4E7X-HECU/VgG8VAgpKsI/AAAAAAAAA0U/X9jAI8wedkY/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-22%2Bat%2B12.42.22%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z4E7X-HECU/VgG8VAgpKsI/AAAAAAAAA0U/X9jAI8wedkY/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-22%2Bat%2B12.42.22%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Friends, Ladies, Countrywomen, lend me your ears...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>40 is just 40.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You can act like you're 30 and dress like you're 20, but you will still be 40. And I just wish someone had been straight with me, so I could have been better prepared. I wish I had been told the truth, which is that I would have a 40 year old body and a 40 year old brain and that this is simultaneously the best and worst thing ever. So, because I love you, here are some important facts about 40:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ul><li><b>You will grow a lady-beard.</b> This vampire facial hair sparkles like diamonds in the sun. Occasionally, a single hair on your neck or face will grow quite long, and when a loved one attempts to brush it off, you will both be horrified to find <i>IT'S ATTACHED</i>.</li></ul><ul><li><b>The cottage cheese on the backs of your thighs spreads like a virus</b>, and&nbsp;it's now on the fronts of your thighs.<i> And your arms. </i>The noonday sun is a 40 year old woman's Kryptonite.&nbsp;</li></ul><ul><li><b>Something frightening happens to a woman's chestal region at 40.</b> It's like flipping a switch. I mean, like, <i>literally flipping a switch</i>; things are pointed <i>up</i>, and then all of a sudden they're pointed <i>down</i>. This happens so fast, it's actually confusing. I'm serious. You hop out of the shower one day and catch a glimpse of your goodies in the mirror, and you're like, “Wait a minute. When did <i>those melt?"</i></li></ul><ul><li><b>Sometimes your hips make noises</b> when you don't want them to make noises. Repetitive hip-popping? Not sexy.</li></ul><ul><li><b>People say super nice things,</b> like, “Wow. You look good...<i>for your age</i>.” Don't stab them. Forgive them. They know not what they do.</li></ul><ul><li><b>Even when you look really good, you don't look </b><i><b>that</b></i><b> good.</b> You can get dressed up and your makeup can be flawless and you can be having a great hair day and no one will even notice. The grocery store checker who would have flirted with you at 30, will call you “Ma'am” and ask you about the weather. It's almost like being invisible. But not.</li></ul>So here's the kicker – All the crappy outer beauty stuff, and the interior moaning and creaking that makes 40 miserable is the same exact stuff that makes 40 kinda kickass...<br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ul><li><b>You become more than a pretty face.</b> I know that's sexist and dated and old-fashioned, but as you are less often defined externally by your looks or your boobs or your sexuality, you discover the freedom to share the more significant parts of who you are and what you have to offer the world. Plus, as people stop looking your way, you stop caring if people are looking your way, and that's powerful.</li></ul><ul><li><b>You really do look good for your age!</b> Rock on, Lady. But don't forget you are smarter, and kinder, and more generous, and more capable, and wiser, and cooler and better <i>because</i> of your age. In fact, you almost feel like a real grown up.&nbsp;</li></ul><ul><li><b>Your hips pop during sex and you don't even care</b> because you know how to laugh during sex. And you know all the other sex stuff, too. YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT SEX because 40 makes you THE QUEEN OF SEX. OR NOT! Does not matter.&nbsp;</li></ul><ul><li><b>Your body is a wonderland</b>...of lumps and bumps and wrinkles and stretch-marks and scars and depleted muscle mass and droopy tits and turkey skin and tufts of fur, and you are actually coming to grips with it. 'Coming to grips' is a very mature thing to do, and you can do that because you're 40 now. You can look at your body and feel proud of all it has accomplished, and also relieved that nobody else is really looking at your body. <i>Because you're 40 now.</i></li></ul><ul><li><b>Cottage cheese arms make you sad, but they don't make you put away your tank tops.</b>&nbsp;You like tank tops, and dammit, you have the right to bare arms. Let your bingo wings fly free, my friends - 40 don't care.</li></ul><ul><li><b>You can't stop the beard, but you do not have to take that shit laying down.</b> I was with a group of women commiserating about our facial fuzz situations, when the oldest of us – the <i>GORGEOUS, stylish, classy chick I want to be when I grow up</i> – shrugged her shoulders and said cooly, “I shave.” And we all stopped talking and our mouths hung open and we stared at her, and she was like, “I shave my face once or twice a week.” This was the most liberating thing EVER. Shave, pluck, wax, peel, sand blast. Whatever, man. We're 40. We do what we want! So if you just want to go with it and let those chin hairs free? Shine on, sister! I support you.</li></ul><div>In the interest of community and sisterhood and being on the same imperfect, shriveled up, squinty eyed, forgetful, granny panty team, can we please just let 40 be 40 from now on? Can we quit pretending that 40 should be something other than 40, and instead welcome the next 40 year old woman into our doughy arms, by putting a stubbly cheek against hers, and gently whispering something encouraging, like "I tweeze my chest hairs." or "I pee when I sneeze." or "I'm going gray <i>down there.</i>"&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Can we spill all of our not-so-old-lady secrets, and let the next woman in line know it's ok to be 40, and to look 40, and to act 40?&nbsp;</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Because, honestly, I'm <i>too damn tired</i> to be 30 again.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm 40. All I want to do is watch Gilmore Girls and take a nap. And that's ok.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">................................................................................................................</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>How do you feel about&nbsp;approaching&nbsp;40?&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>How will you&nbsp;welcome the next woman into the 40 year old fold?&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/HqQ5R7-07sI" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/HqQ5R7-07sI/40-is-not-new-30.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/09/40-is-not-new-30.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-5669639870500887917Wed, 02 Sep 2015 00:11:00 +00002015-09-01T17:13:14.539-07:00Actually, I can judge you.<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It seems like everybody is always calling everybody else out for being judgmental, and it makes me feel so </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">cringey,&nbsp;</span>because<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;I really think</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;</span><b style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;">a world without judgement would suck</b><span style="font-family: inherit;">. It would </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;">SUCK.</i></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am dead serious. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's just be honest – I'm totally judging you <i>right now.&nbsp;</i></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm forming all kinds of opinions about you based on the way you look, the way you talk, the way you treat other people, the way you spend your money, and the way you eat. I'm judging your haircut, your makeup, your muffin top, and your weird dietary restrictions. I'm pondering your choice of partner and appraising your ability to parent your own children. I am questioning your motives right this very second.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's true, I am judgmental. And&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">so are you.&nbsp;</span></b></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I know what you're thinking. You're like, “But, but, but, the Bible says!” And, yes, I also know what the Bible says. It says, </span></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: red;">“</span><span style="color: #fb0007;">Do not judge, or you too will be judged.</span><span style="color: #010f18;"></span></b></span></i></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #fb0007;">For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, </span></b></span></i></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #fb0007; font-family: inherit;"><i><b>and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”</b></i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">It even says it in</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>red</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But is Jesus telling us not to form opinions? Is that what he means? Are we being&nbsp;</span>threatened to&nbsp;<span style="font-family: inherit;">not make&nbsp;</span>observations<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;and form opinions about anyone or anything, or else?</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If that's the case, if God is going to form opinions about me based on the way I've formed&nbsp;</span>opinions<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;about others, I'm not all that torn up about it. On judgement day, God is gonna look me up and down and be like, “Oh, honey, no. Those pants make you look fat. And you have </span>cankles<span style="font-family: inherit;">. And that angry eyebrow is like whoa. I will say your hair has always been pretty good, except for that short bob you got in the 90's. I was </span>sooooo<span style="font-family: inherit;"> glad you never did that again. Ugh! It gives me the shivers just thinking about it. And remember when you drove that minivan with a missing hubcap? That was </span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>hilarious</i></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">. Hashtag whitetrash. Also, you were kind of a whore in high school. And your attempts at parenting? Pathetic. Like, I was embarrassed for you the whole time...” And on and on and on and on and on. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">And I'll just be standing there, rolling my eyes, like, <b>“Jeez, God is </b></span></span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>so</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;</span>judgmental<span style="font-family: inherit;">.”</span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But I'm pretty sure that's not gonna happen, because I'm pretty sure that's not what Jesus meant. I don't think he was talking about that kind of judgement.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Judgement in the form of observing and opining is a really healthy, necessary part of life and growth. I ask my children to use good judgment every day. I want them to look at the people around them and be able to make thoughtful choices about who they do and do not want to be like. In my own life, I want to emulate the positive behavior I see in others, and I want to recognize and reject that which is not beneficial to me. But how can we do that if we're not permitted to think critically about the world around us?</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFEWEjoZkrI/VeYWYNeTt0I/AAAAAAAAAzs/qyhKaF4UCd4/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-01%2Bat%2B2.17.30%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFEWEjoZkrI/VeYWYNeTt0I/AAAAAAAAAzs/qyhKaF4UCd4/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-01%2Bat%2B2.17.30%2BPM.png" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know, I know, “<b>YOU CAN'T JUDGE ME!</b>” is the battle cry of our people. We live in the age of the opinion police, where personal thoughts made public can be swept aside by the opposition with the clutching of pearls or grasping of vape pens, and a smarmy, “Who are you to judge?!” or maybe a defensive, “Judgemental much?” This is almost inevitably followed by a counter attack comment like, “Now who's being judgmental?” or, my favorite, “Aren't you judging her for judging you?”</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;">And so begins the annoying, never ending circle of judgment to infinity. But what if we are allowed to have opinions? And what if our opinions are just that, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;"><b>opinions</b></i><b style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;">; not fact or truth or even reality</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> - just our own sincere beliefs about the life we think God&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">wants for us.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do think we get to form opinions, even about our friends and neighbors and favorite bloggers. But Jesus is warning his followers against using those carefully formed opinions to <i>condemn</i> the people around us.&nbsp;</span>I don't get to decide your worth as a human being or your fate or your future based on what I think of you or your life. I don't decide who's in or who's out. It's not for me to impose my will or my ways on everyone else. It's not my place to issue edicts of eternal fate, no matter how opposed I am to someone else's beliefs.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am not The Judge.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Condemn not, or you too will be condemned.</b></span></i></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>For in the same way you condemn others, you will be condemned, </b></span></i></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.</b></span></i></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It sounds so much more serious when you put it like that, it's almost scary. But this is</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;not a threat, it's a brilliant gift from God -- because when you drop the judge's gavel, what you're left with is an open hand.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you've found yourself unable to extend a hand to the people you disagree with, then perhaps your judgement has crossed over to condemnation. Tread lightly, my friend, you are stepping on God's toes.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">He has already given us permission to love generously</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">and&nbsp;</span>wholly<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;and to the best of our&nbsp;</span>dynamic<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;understanding, and He's released us from the pressure of trying to change people to fit into our narrow views.&nbsp;</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We get to have opinions, even unpopular ones, and we get to say them out loud if we want to - this two way street is how we grow and challenge and learn from each other - but we need more good judgement and less reckless condemnation. Our conversations are more productive when they're&nbsp;open-handed and open-ended, more&nbsp;</span>invitational<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;than confrontational, filled with personal thoughts, but free of personal demands.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Because<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;see, <b>actually? I&nbsp;</b></span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: bold;">can</i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: bold;">&nbsp;judge you.</span>&nbsp;And you can judge me. But, no matter how tightly we hold to our <strike>gavels</strike>&nbsp;convictions, we don't get to condemn each other to hell or to poverty or to solitary confinement or to celibacy, or to a life or death apart from Christ.&nbsp;</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>He&nbsp;</b><b>calls us to love freely and then He frees us to love fully.</b></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And that's it, and that's all, and that's enough.&nbsp;</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">...<i>But, hey, that's just my opinion.</i></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/L-UqKd8kcYk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/L-UqKd8kcYk/actually-i-can-judge-you.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/09/actually-i-can-judge-you.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-4115831062884488552Mon, 17 Aug 2015 19:48:00 +00002015-08-17T13:16:26.274-07:00Bless this Hizzy fo Shizzy; My new office interior on a dime.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Remember how <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/06/how-to-build-affordable-shed-office-in.html" target="_blank">El Chupacabra built me my very own office</a> out of sweat and blood and a shed kit from Costco?&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Me, too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">In fact, I'm sitting in it right now - basking in the glory of a perfectly silent space that is all my own. And I've gotta say, it's a big improvement over my previous writing stations; perched on my bed next to an ever-present, always massive pile of laundry waiting to be folded and put away, or sitting cross-legged on the sofa with the loud swish swooshing of the dishwasher to remind there are other things I could be doing that aren't writing. Things like cleaning or cooking or plucking my eyebrows.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>But no more.&nbsp;</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The days of putting off words that are begging to be written and thoughts that are aching to escape are behind me. When I walk through my office door, there's only one thing to do, because under this precious roof I have only one purpose.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>This is where I write.&nbsp;</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">That's it and that's all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PowAImU_V_k/VdIbJINp2gI/AAAAAAAAAxs/SyprnE6Af88/s640/blogger-image-2078051475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PowAImU_V_k/VdIbJINp2gI/AAAAAAAAAxs/SyprnE6Af88/s640/blogger-image-2078051475.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But before I could really start writing in here, I needed a place to sit. I had this beautiful blank slate, a creative space to fill to my hearts desire... and zero dollars to fill it with. For the most part, I would have to make due with what we had on hand, so I set about the house stealing furniture, blankets, baskets, art, and office supplies until the tiny house in my backyard felt like a tiny 2nd home.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I wanted color, I wanted whimsey, and I wanted it to be free. And I knew the easiest way to pull that off would be to go "Shabby Chic". (Which we all know is just a nice way of saying "Shitty Cheap".)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So I started by jacking this little desk I snagged at a garage sale for like 10 bucks two years ago and painting it.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8rPGHzp3d24/VdIbK1KYj9I/AAAAAAAAAx0/8RnJuKugMW8/s640/blogger-image--572916253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8rPGHzp3d24/VdIbK1KYj9I/AAAAAAAAAx0/8RnJuKugMW8/s200/blogger-image--572916253.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wtyp9JmC8YU/VdIdVNZVhfI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/2tx2BcdG75A/s640/blogger-image-344254334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wtyp9JmC8YU/VdIdVNZVhfI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/2tx2BcdG75A/s200/blogger-image-344254334.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>RED.&nbsp;</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QPyqe-t6AHc/VdIWSn6OzRI/AAAAAAAAAw8/EBiIaUl0Ji0/s640/blogger-image-1120617659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QPyqe-t6AHc/VdIWSn6OzRI/AAAAAAAAAw8/EBiIaUl0Ji0/s640/blogger-image-1120617659.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was perfect paired with this kickass vintage chair and gray chevron upholstery. (A gift from my incredibly thoughtful sister-in-law!)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">But a writer also needs a cozy corner...<i>NEEDS..</i>. So I took an Ikea cane chair and a fuzzy wool throw right out of the living room as if no one would notice they were missing.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: center;">Kids: <b>"Wasn't there a chair here?"</b></div><div style="text-align: center;">Me: <b>"...Uh....I don't <i>think</i> so."</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-clJR-c1JvBQ/VdIWJGWCuQI/AAAAAAAAAv8/y-_oDL7kXNk/s640/blogger-image--169110380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-clJR-c1JvBQ/VdIWJGWCuQI/AAAAAAAAAv8/y-_oDL7kXNk/s640/blogger-image--169110380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-clJR-c1JvBQ/VdIWJGWCuQI/AAAAAAAAAv8/y-_oDL7kXNk/s640/blogger-image--169110380.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;">And for a side table, I used these two stumps I had from last winter, when I made my husband and son pick them up off the side of the road after a tree near our house was hit by lightning and took out some power lines and the city had to cut it down. I chiseled the bark off of one and left other intact and I love the color and texture and insects they bring to the room. (This is a work in progress - I have bigger plans for these guys. Check back in 11 years or so.)</div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0RenuVMayB4/VdIbHHpoYpI/AAAAAAAAAxc/UZyDgtD43MU/s640/blogger-image-2126052975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0RenuVMayB4/VdIbHHpoYpI/AAAAAAAAAxc/UZyDgtD43MU/s200/blogger-image-2126052975.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-X0WD3XF8xY4/VdIWOgLhAOI/AAAAAAAAAwk/WNBvk9C7taA/s640/blogger-image--624772963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-X0WD3XF8xY4/VdIWOgLhAOI/AAAAAAAAAwk/WNBvk9C7taA/s200/blogger-image--624772963.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For a bookshelf, I took the unused hutch from the sideboard in our dining room (which has been sitting in our garage for 3 years), flipped it over, stuck a board across the top and painted the whole thing with leftover semigloss paint from the office trim. Boom. <i>Free.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Jgbc5BghKFc/VdIWMhKLo3I/AAAAAAAAAwU/qGU28erMMgA/s640/blogger-image-1352972472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Jgbc5BghKFc/VdIWMhKLo3I/AAAAAAAAAwU/qGU28erMMgA/s640/blogger-image-1352972472.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It used to be black.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When I was priming and painting it, I had serious reservations about how it would turn out, but after a third coat and with the addition of a couple of itty bitty crystal knobs, I think it works.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;But whatever. It was free.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-i2VT9jzTNYU/VdIdG6VanXI/AAAAAAAAAyI/RbTwfbJHaMw/s640/blogger-image-946244655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-i2VT9jzTNYU/VdIdG6VanXI/AAAAAAAAAyI/RbTwfbJHaMw/s200/blogger-image-946244655.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-L_Suel3hGMM/VdIWKGlbuLI/AAAAAAAAAwE/iAUGfSP-kHA/s640/blogger-image--393841395.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-L_Suel3hGMM/VdIWKGlbuLI/AAAAAAAAAwE/iAUGfSP-kHA/s200/blogger-image--393841395.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Topped with one of my Grandmother's oil paintings, a repurposed picture frame,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;and office doodads in adorable jars?&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Love is in the details.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bfQJV-5Hs84/VdIWPsiDy1I/AAAAAAAAAws/31nWN3ZIaXM/s640/blogger-image-1993071829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bfQJV-5Hs84/VdIWPsiDy1I/AAAAAAAAAws/31nWN3ZIaXM/s640/blogger-image-1993071829.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">On the shelves you'll find things I like from people I adore. Custom paper clips and a big jar of pencils (also a gift from the sis-in-law!), my favorite old and new books, a couple of photo albums (remember those?!). And the best? Art and notes and poems and pics from my kids; things I have gathered and saved for the day when I could look up from my own work and be inspired by theirs.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SG73ZycJ2iw/VdIWKpweDNI/AAAAAAAAAwM/kmu2FPr7Iss/s640/blogger-image-1133685144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SG73ZycJ2iw/VdIWKpweDNI/AAAAAAAAAwM/kmu2FPr7Iss/s200/blogger-image-1133685144.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SIWiEgiFv_8/VdIWNufvphI/AAAAAAAAAwc/v63NkyU0iYw/s640/blogger-image--274291661.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SIWiEgiFv_8/VdIWNufvphI/AAAAAAAAAwc/v63NkyU0iYw/s200/blogger-image--274291661.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I think, in the end, the inside of my little office is exactly what I needed it to be:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Quietly reflective and personally inspiring.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And basically free.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3F_3BIwB6p8/VdIbIfZ5nNI/AAAAAAAAAxk/sJsMRdyKfiM/s640/blogger-image-1440235235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3F_3BIwB6p8/VdIbIfZ5nNI/AAAAAAAAAxk/sJsMRdyKfiM/s320/blogger-image-1440235235.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Knives isn't really feeling it, but screw him.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I LOVE IT.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My little retreat. My still refuge. My home not far from home.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>I call it <i>Sanctuary</i>.</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-z0Y9f3t0wb0/VdIX_W3GbYI/AAAAAAAAAxM/qCzlF9jtY8A/s640/blogger-image--1594305890.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-z0Y9f3t0wb0/VdIX_W3GbYI/AAAAAAAAAxM/qCzlF9jtY8A/s640/blogger-image--1594305890.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And <b>I pray God dwells here</b>, too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-n8Uv1ifXy0o/VdIVAXA8mJI/AAAAAAAAAv0/cYxL-l5_Xj4/s640/blogger-image--1826868068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-n8Uv1ifXy0o/VdIVAXA8mJI/AAAAAAAAAv0/cYxL-l5_Xj4/s640/blogger-image--1826868068.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Bless this Hizzy fo Shizzy, indeed.&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/broaI-eDqy8" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/broaI-eDqy8/bless-this-hizzy-fo-shizzy-my-new.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/08/bless-this-hizzy-fo-shizzy-my-new.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-3785295986359563093Thu, 30 Jul 2015 19:48:00 +00002015-07-30T13:06:57.871-07:00What if Mother Teresa hated her thighs?<br />So, I recently posted this to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jamietheveryworstmissionary" target="_blank">my Facebook page</a>:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ViCc75O5NY/VbpaKwEEBHI/AAAAAAAAAt4/lZrYa2KGdNI/s1600/11800366_855931771140688_2453185909032646472_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ViCc75O5NY/VbpaKwEEBHI/AAAAAAAAAt4/lZrYa2KGdNI/s320/11800366_855931771140688_2453185909032646472_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I saw it in a friend's <a href="https://instagram.com/jamiethevwm/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> feed and I had to share it because it's so funny and true, right?!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But as the likes rolled in and the shares stack up, I started to wonder if it was actually true. I mean, <i>did </i>Mother Teresa complain about her thighs? Did she ever wish she was taller? That she had a smaller nose? Or a longer neck? Or bigger eyes, or whatever? Did she ever lament,&nbsp;<i>even a little teeny bit,</i>&nbsp;the lines on her face growing deeper, or the skin on the backs of her hands turning paper thin?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yeah. I doubt it, too.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Given the nature and scope of her work, I think the meme is probably based in truth. Her life is so well documented, we can say with integrity that Mother Teresa wasn't much of a complainer. We know she wasn't distracted by silly, frivolous things, like outward appearances, and she didn't believe in the accumulation of personal wealth or material possessions. So, I think we can safely assume she didn't lay in bed at night reading magazine articles about eyebrow shaping and body hair removal. Plus, to be blunt, when you live among the starving and the dying, "thigh gap" means something completely different.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But part of me kind of hopes that, at least once in a while, she sat around with the other nuns after dinner or between vespers or whatever nuns do, remarking about the way human flesh turns to turkey skin in our old age, or comparing leg hair length, or standing side by side, wrapped in their matching cotton saris, for a friendly round of "Who Wore it Better?" &nbsp;-- I love the idea mostly because it would be funny, but also because that's what I would do.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't think she did, but what if Mother Teresa hated her thighs? Would her good work be any less good? I guess I'd just like to believe it's possible that that heroic, saintly lady and I could share this common thread of womanhood. Because I hate my thighs, I really do, and I don't see that changing any time soon, but I want to get shit done.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Mother Teresa was a woman consumed by things that matter. And she got shit done.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am a woman consumed by a contradictory mess of things (from unicorn poop to sex-trafficking, from materialistic wants to felt needs, from what is social to what is spiritual, from Instagram to the impoverished to <a href="https://instagram.com/jamiethevwm/" target="_blank">Instagraming the impoverished</a>. I can go from crying over our messy world to worrying over a messy bun in .02 seconds flat). And I'm getting almost zero shit done.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But maybe there's still hope for a shallow, flippant, wannabe world-changer, like me. Because, while I believe that as a very young woman Mama T was consumed to the point of action, I wonder if maybe I could act to the point of consumption. <b>Like, maybe for a while I can get shit done AND want to look good doing it. And maybe as I invest myself in what matters most, what matters most will intertwine itself in me.</b> I've wasted too much time already being the chick who thinks she's not worthy to do good work until she quits complaining about her thighs. So maybe it's time for me to say "Fuck it. I've got shit to do", and then go shave my legs, put on some makeup, blow dry my hair, change clothes three times, and<i> </i>get out there&nbsp;to serve.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My meme certainly won't be as impressive or inspiring, but <b>if I can help the next insecure, self-absorbed, easily distracted person get up, get fabulous, and get to work on making the world a better place, then my job here is done.</b></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9bvS0uzfTI4/Vbp6JFcChTI/AAAAAAAAAuM/wi5Ir7zHeHw/s640/blogger-image--1965163077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9bvS0uzfTI4/Vbp6JFcChTI/AAAAAAAAAuM/wi5Ir7zHeHw/s320/blogger-image--1965163077.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D3785295986359563093&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-5ViCc75O5NY%2FVbpaKwEEBHI%2FAAAAAAAAAt4%2FlZrYa2KGdNI%2Fs320%2F11800366_855931771140688_2453185909032646472_n.jpg&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 193px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 72px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D3785295986359563093&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-5ViCc75O5NY%2FVbpaKwEEBHI%2FAAAAAAAAAt4%2FlZrYa2KGdNI%2Fs320%2F11800366_855931771140688_2453185909032646472_n.jpg&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.37.01&amp;xuid=ndCY4sQRnxyu&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 193px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 72px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/d4_3Z_VruWk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/d4_3Z_VruWk/what-if-mother-theresa-hated-her-thighs.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/07/what-if-mother-theresa-hated-her-thighs.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-5729123500482107810Tue, 09 Jun 2015 01:04:00 +00002015-06-08T18:27:43.905-07:00How to Build an Affordable Shed-Office in 18 Easy... Months. Whenever the subject of pregnancy, labor, and delivery comes up, my husband likes to say, "It was a piece of cake!" He loves this joke. He thinks it's funny. Get it??? Because<i> I </i>did all the work. I put in the months of carrying, I gave up the sweat, blood, and tears, and I felt the pain - while he just sat there and watched. <i>Piece of cake.</i><br /><i><br /></i><div></div><div>Well, now it's my turn. I can't wait for people to see the beautiful office El Chupacabra built in our backyard. They will undoubtedly look it over with admiration and inevitably ask if it was hard to do, and I will cut into the conversation to say, "IT WAS A PIECE OF CAKE!"&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Every time.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>I cannot wait.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>It will be so good.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Because, <i>get it???&nbsp;</i>He put in the months of work, and there was a lot of sweat, and also some blood, and probably a few tears. He felt the pain and angst and frustration of bringing something new into the word. And I just sat there and watched. <i>Piece of cake!</i></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sbkc652MAtE/VXYGO3OqPRI/AAAAAAAAAq0/fZoK5ht6LR8/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-06-08%2Bat%2B1.37.20%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sbkc652MAtE/VXYGO3OqPRI/AAAAAAAAAq0/fZoK5ht6LR8/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-06-08%2Bat%2B1.37.20%2BPM.png" width="395" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>But, I have to admit, unlike bringing forth tiny humans, where after the initial act of conception I had very little choice in the matter - the babies grew, labor started, delivery happened - he had to make a conscious effort to bring forth this office. And he did. <i>For me</i>. He built me an office from the ground up, and he did it in spare minutes and slivers of free time and occasional hours that were salvaged, snuck, and carved away from the busy, busy life of a Pastor/Father/Son/Friend/Husband/Brother/Neighbor.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>And it was not a piece of cake.</div><div><br /></div><div>We aren't people of great financial means, so when I asked him if we could put a "writers shed" in our tiny backyard, I thought I was asking if I could piece together some tin and and particle board and 2x4s to hide in when I needed a quite space to write. The kind of writer's shed I had envisioned is usually filled with rusty bikes and lawnmowers and black widows; a squatty, dilapidated, little building where people throw shit they don't want to look at and rats multiply in the night. I thought we'd buy something off Craigslist, haul it home, spray it out with a garden hose and VIOLA-- Jamie's Home Office!<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rg4xNBTTWdE/VXYIu-S3-YI/AAAAAAAAArc/4hSOssfG5vg/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rg4xNBTTWdE/VXYIu-S3-YI/AAAAAAAAArc/4hSOssfG5vg/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was the office of my dreams?&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>But when I cast the vision for a crappy little shed to write in, El Chupacabra shook his head and said we could do better. He told me to buy a brand new shed, and when we found the perfect thing on sale at Costco for $999, I thought I'd hit the jackpot. I never expected to have such a<i> nice</i> crappy shed to hide in! So we bought it and had it delivered to our house on a pallet in 10,000 pieces with no instructions on a cool October morning.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sULEJ3L9fG0/VXYThQ-wUxI/AAAAAAAAAsk/UpGguz6GIsM/s1600/FullSizeRender-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sULEJ3L9fG0/VXYThQ-wUxI/AAAAAAAAAsk/UpGguz6GIsM/s320/FullSizeRender-2.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And then El Chupacabra went to work on it!</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Just kidding.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Then the shed sat on a pallet in 10,000 pieces in the garage <i>for six months</i> because homeownership can be a real son of bitch and it took a long, long time for "build a shed" to make it's way to the tippity top of the long, long list of things that need to be done around our house.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>It sat for six months. And <i>then&nbsp;</i>El Chupacabra went to work on it.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the part where I wish I could convey how busy this man is so you would know exactly what a big deal this is. He is <i>THE BUSIEST</i>. But he's not like a neglectful, workaholic, wheel spinning kind of busy - he's like a community building, child rearing, neighbor loving, people serving, bread breaking, beer toasting kind of busy. He loves and he is loved and that's not a bad thing. I could never complain about that! But it did mean that building a shed would have to be done in a series of tiny movements; an hour here, an evening there, one Sunday afternoon every couple of months, several late nights - until it was done. Fortunately, this perfectly matched the slow pace of our itty bitty budget, giving us time to collect and count our nickels and dimes for things like shingles and windows and drywall.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that's why it took another year, but <i>he got it done</i>.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JEzoBllRtag/VXYFFLnTijI/AAAAAAAAAp4/s014LuoS6ZE/s1600/IMG_5777.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JEzoBllRtag/VXYFFLnTijI/AAAAAAAAAp4/s014LuoS6ZE/s320/IMG_5777.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The walls went up on July 19th, 2014, which sounds like a long time ago, but, you guys...&nbsp;</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HOClR867mgw/VXYFFbyEgTI/AAAAAAAAApo/tS9N7DaA3fc/s200/IMG_5778.JPG" />&nbsp;<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cFzP3BlkEMs/VXYFLYUyyII/AAAAAAAAAqY/2CXXA7KqG4Q/s1600/IMG_5782.JPG"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cFzP3BlkEMs/VXYFLYUyyII/AAAAAAAAAqY/2CXXA7KqG4Q/s200/IMG_5782.JPG" /></a>&nbsp;<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F8nJDlk22sg/VXYFLZagxNI/AAAAAAAAAqU/mdFwV_vGtwE/s200/IMG_5781.JPG" /><br /><br />....September 9th, 14th, 15th he worked... And he reengineered things along the way, adding 3 feet in height to make it less sheddy and more cottagey, putting in two little windows to make it less cavey and more homey (even though I told him he didn't have to add anything, I would be fine with a writing cave; I would call it "The Batshit Cave")...<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UfTZLzm3gzI/VXYFGD2BQCI/AAAAAAAAAp8/zMW9KJThwjc/s1600/IMG_5779.JPG"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UfTZLzm3gzI/VXYFGD2BQCI/AAAAAAAAAp8/zMW9KJThwjc/s200/IMG_5779.JPG" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rOydFzLxyZw/VXYO1xd5e0I/AAAAAAAAAr0/kRvn0TE63uE/s1600/IMG_2751.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rOydFzLxyZw/VXYO1xd5e0I/AAAAAAAAAr0/kRvn0TE63uE/s200/IMG_2751.jpg" /></a>&nbsp;<img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cJ21TKyL6PU/VXYNWOAFxuI/AAAAAAAAArw/aPwYHk4IPEA/s200/IMG_0546.JPG" /><br /><br />...and then...October 5th, 13th, 23rd...He gave me a water tight roof and french doors, <i>ooh la la</i>, and with the exterior finally finished, on the inside he let there be light, and then he began the process of installing insulation and drywall, and I got very, very excited, because when the walls went up, it felt like I was actually, for real, totally gonna have an office someday!...<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VOeYak-yJBA/VXYPur8dDSI/AAAAAAAAAsE/U64DTwog5A4/s200/IMG_5785.JPG" /> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9GlSyMvG3Vg/VXYFLpbKc-I/AAAAAAAAAqQ/Br6XAcQZ7LA/s1600/IMG_5783.JPG"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9GlSyMvG3Vg/VXYFLpbKc-I/AAAAAAAAAqQ/Br6XAcQZ7LA/s200/IMG_5783.JPG" /></a> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SMciJekIDzA/VXYFBURYQzI/AAAAAAAAApY/B1VfR5T95Wk/s1600/IMG_5759.JPG"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SMciJekIDzA/VXYFBURYQzI/AAAAAAAAApY/B1VfR5T95Wk/s200/IMG_5759.JPG" /></a></div><div><div><br />...and then the Holidays came and made him even busier... but he was back at it January 14th and February 11th and April 19th, still working whenever he could, and then there was a ceiling and one day it was stained, and on May 3rd, trim showed up around the windows and on the 30th the floor appeared...&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vnND-yI9SLU/VXYGOEU8ROI/AAAAAAAAAqw/PPN2e5VhEDg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-06-08%2Bat%2B1.37.08%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vnND-yI9SLU/VXYGOEU8ROI/AAAAAAAAAqw/PPN2e5VhEDg/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-06-08%2Bat%2B1.37.08%2BPM.png" width="398" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>...And on June 1st, 2015, without ceremony, El Chupacabra quietly welcomed me in to the MOST DREAMY SPACE you could ever imagine and then he gave me a look that said, "Now write."&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>So I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>I asked my husband for a crappy shed to hide in and he gave me a tiny house to shine in. And it's even more significant to me that this incredible gift didn't come out his full days and great fortunes, but it was built with precious seconds and bought in spare change, created from the leftovers of the day... and I think that's maybe what love really looks like for us; It looks like a little cottage, built with fleeting moments and pinched pennies and big dreams.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>And soon it will look like the dedication page of a book that says, "For the Love of my life, who built me an office. Even though it was a piece of cake."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>..</b><b>............................................................................................................</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>In case you're interested in the more practical details:</b>&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>A friend of mine just told me she was going to pay $10,000 for an unfinished prefab office - my <i>finished</i> office cost A THIRD of that. Sooooo, yeah.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Overall, we spent about $3500 for the entire project: Shed kit (costco.com), foundation, subfloor, shingles, windows (discounted at a Home Depot clearance wherehouse), insulation (to save money, he brought home giant sheets of styrofoam left over after our church's VBS program), electrical everything (fuse box, ground rod, wire, outlets, switches, faceplates), drywall/compound/plaster, pre-hung doors (around $360 at Lowes), trim/baseboard, interior and exterior primer/paint, flooring (to keep costs down, we used a click and lock vinyl "wood" plank floor, and can't even believe how good it looks!), and a keyed entry doorknob/deadbolt.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>&nbsp;$3500 for the whole dang thing. His spending is frugal.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>His tools are basic: a drill, a power saw, a nail gun, and his bare freaking hands.</div><div><br /></div><div>His skills are mad.&nbsp;</div><div></div><div>If you have specific questions about El Chupacabra's kickass shed-into-office process, feel free to ask. I'm sure he'd be happy to pop in with answers.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>But please - If you're planning on paying $10,000 for a prefab shed/office, El Chupacabra would be happy to offer his services. I am not even kidding. A dedicated backyard build would take him like 2 weeks. For real. He's available for hire and he would be happy to build you the sheddy office of your dreams. No, seriously...<br /><br /><br /></div></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-vnND-yI9SLU%2FVXYGOEU8ROI%2FAAAAAAAAAqw%2FPPN2e5VhEDg%2Fs400%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2015-06-08%252Bat%252B1.37.08%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 154px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3498px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-vnND-yI9SLU%2FVXYGOEU8ROI%2FAAAAAAAAAqw%2FPPN2e5VhEDg%2Fs400%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2015-06-08%252Bat%252B1.37.08%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 154px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3498px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-vnND-yI9SLU%2FVXYGOEU8ROI%2FAAAAAAAAAqw%2FPPN2e5VhEDg%2Fs400%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2015-06-08%252Bat%252B1.37.08%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 154px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3498px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-vnND-yI9SLU%2FVXYGOEU8ROI%2FAAAAAAAAAqw%2FPPN2e5VhEDg%2Fs400%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2015-06-08%252Bat%252B1.37.08%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 154px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3498px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-vnND-yI9SLU%2FVXYGOEU8ROI%2FAAAAAAAAAqw%2FPPN2e5VhEDg%2Fs400%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2015-06-08%252Bat%252B1.37.08%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 154px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3498px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-vnND-yI9SLU%2FVXYGOEU8ROI%2FAAAAAAAAAqw%2FPPN2e5VhEDg%2Fs400%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2015-06-08%252Bat%252B1.37.08%252BPM.png&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 154px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 3498px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/MDZfMmcIDP0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/MDZfMmcIDP0/how-to-build-affordable-shed-office-in.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/06/how-to-build-affordable-shed-office-in.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-8812672799973135199Thu, 07 May 2015 19:05:00 +00002015-05-09T12:42:38.667-07:00When the Very Best Missionary isn't a Missionary at all...<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This post contains sponsored links.</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><br />You know when you see a movie and you sort of like it, but you're also kind of bothered by it, so you can't stop thinking about it? Yeah. <a href="http://thenoblemovie.com/buy-tickets/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">NOBLE is doing that to me</a>.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://thenoblemovie.com/buy-tickets/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">NOBLE</a> tells the true story of non-pofit founder, Christina Noble, and how her impoverished childhood, stolen youth, and abusive marriage eventually led her from her home country of Ireland to Viet Nam, in 1989, where she created a foundation that has since fed, clothed, educated, and protected thousands of orphans and street children. In short, it's an inspiring story of an ordinary woman who goes on a mission to serve the poor and vulnerable. </div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Except she's not a missionary. </b></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>And she's not that ordinary.</b></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">…</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">People are always asking me for advice about how to become a missionary, and, I've gotta admit, it always makes me cringe a little on the inside (and probably also on the outside, because I have a cringey kind of face). It's just that I don't want to dash anybody's passionate dreams of flying off to a foreign land where they'll walk the dusty streets hand in hand with a couple of dirt-covered brown kids they plucked from a trash heap. But also? <i>I do.</i> I do want to dash their dreams. I want to tell them they're delusional if they think that's how the world works. </div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HdvgAPaAJ4w/VUuypZ_QbBI/AAAAAAAAAhE/Hw0FGhS3iQo/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-05-07%2Bat%2B11.42.44%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HdvgAPaAJ4w/VUuypZ_QbBI/AAAAAAAAAhE/Hw0FGhS3iQo/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-05-07%2Bat%2B11.42.44%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yyyeeaah. <i>No</i>.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">When people ask me how to get involved in aftercare for girls who have been rescued from sex-trafficking in South East Asia, I know what they're hoping I'll say is that all those girls need is for someone to “show up” and “love on them”. You should see the looks of dismay and disappointment when I give them my honest opinion, which is that they should go to school and maybe study therapy and social work, and then perhaps work in those fields for awhile, and<i> </i>then seek an organization overseas that needs a therapist or social worker and apply for a job with them – which, ideally, would be to train and equip nationals to offer therapy and social work for victims of sex-trafficking.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">If you tell me you want to end slavery, I'll tell you to go out, into the world, and... <i>study Economics!&nbsp;</i><i>*womp womp*&nbsp;</i></div>If you tell me you want to hold orphans in Africa, I'll tell you to stick around and study early childhood development.<br /><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">If you tell me you want to bathe street kids in Juarez, I'll tell you </span><i>I'll be watching</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and if you dare touch a single child inappropriately, I will call the cops on your perv ass so fast, you'll be in a Mexican prison before you can say, “Our </span><i>special hug </i><span style="font-style: normal;">was supposed to be a secret!”</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Just call me Dream Crusher.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Can I be totally honest here? I don't think the world needs anymore social justice missionaries. We've had our fill of well-intentioned, but ill-equipped volunteers. Over the last 20 years, our sincere and valiant efforts to love mankind have wasted enough money, disenfranchised enough people, and created enough dependency to last a lifetime. Retrospect has shown us we can do better. <i>We&nbsp;don't need anymore missionaries.</i>&nbsp;We need actual teachers, and social workers, and business wo/men, and midwives, and therapists, and pastors, and farmers, and caregivers, and on and on and on... Because&nbsp;we have the greatest impact when we, specifically, send the right people, to do the right job, in the right place.&nbsp;</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I know. I know what you're thinking. You're like, “....but, but, but...what about all the </span><i>good</i><span style="font-style: normal;">stuff we've done? And what about Mother Theresa? And what about that Kisses from Katie chick? And what about that one time when I went to that one place and that AMAZING thing happened? What about that?!"</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And I don't want to discredit any of the extraordinary things that have happened in the name of missions these last few years, not at all, because, yes, there has been some good stuff. But most of our amazing missions anecdotes really are </span><i>extraordinary </i><span style="font-style: normal;">success stories – as in not typical. And not advisably clone-able. Like, Katie Davis has done a beautiful, extraordinary thing, and I honestly believe God has used her in amazing ways - but that's not a good reason for every 20 year old white girl with a “heart for missions” to hop on the next flight to Zimbabwe or whatever.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Initially, as I watched Cristina Noble's story unfold on the screen, I was irritated by that very notion. </span><i>Great. Another nice little Faith story about a white chick who “feels called” to “love on” third world rug-rats, so she shows up in their country, completely unannounced and totally unprepared, and then TA-DA! She saves all the children. </i></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Boo. </b></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But Cristina's faith doesn't come across as all that nice. In the film it comes off as pleading, faltering, demanding, confused, and even a&nbsp;little bit scheming – kind of like my own. And her “call” is never really defined. She saw images of the war on the news. She had a dream. Then, years later, after her kids were grown and gone, she got on a plane. Do I think that's kinda weird? Yeah. But at least she let it stew for a couple of decades before she flew away. (And, yes, we could talk for days about white savior complex – but remember this was back in1989, way before posting mission trip selfies on Facebook was a competitive sport.) What I loved, though, is that Christina Noble's capacity to help the street-children of Viet Nam wasn't born simply out of wild passion or good intention, it developed in her over a lifetime. She drew from her personal experience in poverty, her time of homelessness, her distrust of God and the Church, and all the lessons of Motherhood. She was uniquely prepared and extraordinarily equipped for the task at hand. And, y'know, I don't know anything... but, <i style="font-weight: normal;">maybe</i><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">that's why she's been so successful in her efforts.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><a href="http://thenoblemovie.com/" rel="nofollow" style="font-style: normal;" target="_blank">NOBLE</a>is not the story of a missionary. It's the story of a woman who was the right person, doing the right job, in the right place. And the God who never forsakes us...</b><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/CLMfTOp4gnU/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CLMfTOp4gnU?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div><br /></div><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><a href="http://thenoblemovie.com/buy-tickets/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">NOBLE will be in theaters, Friday, May 8th</a></b> - Go see it so you can come back here and we can talk about it! Tell me all your thoughts...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This post contains sponsored links.</span></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/Fk_j2C9j6A0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/Fk_j2C9j6A0/when-very-best-missionary-isnt.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/05/when-very-best-missionary-isnt.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-359473273687218300Wed, 08 Apr 2015 20:35:00 +00002015-04-08T21:41:03.353-07:00Giving Life to Life-Giving Work<br />Friends, I try to share things with you here that I believe are life-giving in some way.<br /><div><br />I post links to funny things and creative things and spiritual things, things that remind us we're connected to each other, things that make us feel like we're not crazy, things that bring freedom and grace and wholeness, things that are inspiring, redemptive, healing.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is one of those things...</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Brian Chandler is my people.&nbsp;</b></div><div><br /></div><div>He is honest and raw and genuine and real and all the stuff we love around here. He just... gets it. He gets what it is to be broken and battered and abandoned, but he also gets Grace. And on top of all that? The guy makes music that makes me cry. He writes the kind of songs that find me where I'm lost and wandering, take me by the hand, and lead me home.&nbsp;</div><div><br />I have no doubt <a href="https://www.facebook.com/nightseamusic">Night Sea</a>&nbsp;will be life-giving for many.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>But first we have to give it life.</div><div><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b>Will you help me help Brian make music that makes us cry and takes us home?</b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">..................................................................................................................</div><div><br /></div><div>I really don't ask for much. Only that, together as a community, we end modern day slavery, fight human trafficking, consume with a conscience, eat local, love well, and lean on each other.&nbsp;<i>And this.&nbsp;</i>I'm asking for this...</div><div><br /></div><div>As of this posting, we are only 7 days and a little more than $3200 away from funding a project that I believe will speak Grace and Peace to the hopeless, the hurting, the lost, and the lonely among us. It would be so cool if you were part of it. Fund it, share it, pray for it - whatever - just participate somehow, if you can.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><b>Click here to give life to live-giving work:&nbsp;<a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/nightsea/night-sea-debut-ep" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://www.kickstarter.com/pro…/nightsea/night-sea-debut-ep</a></b></div><div><div><div style="color: #141823; display: inline; line-height: 19px; margin-top: 6px;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="color: #141823; display: inline; line-height: 19px; margin-top: 6px;"><iframe frameborder="0" height="480" scrolling="no" src="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/nightsea/night-sea-debut-ep/widget/video.html" width="640"> </iframe></div></div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>***If anyone was inclined to go over there right now and simply cover the remaining&nbsp;$3000-ish of this project, then I would be inclined to meet that person at the Night Sea&nbsp;release</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>party with a bottle of home-brew, a homemade Picaken, a custom Knives t-shirt,&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>and a rare show of affection in the form of a two-armed, full-frontal HUG.&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>I swear, <i>THAT</i> is how bad I want this record to happen.***</b></div><br /><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/FcMxwdWEM64" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/FcMxwdWEM64/giving-life-to-life-giving-work.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/04/giving-life-to-life-giving-work.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-5786118639505108445Tue, 10 Mar 2015 01:34:00 +00002015-03-13T10:33:44.381-07:00Let us Pray.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Ok. I know I have this whole missionary thing going on, and I'm married to a pastor, and I sincerely love Jesus, but, despite all that, somehow I found myself living a life without prayer. I mean, I still pray occasionally, like before dinner when we have company, but lately it hasn't been often, and it hasn't been very sincere.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I used to pray earnestly, with a deep sense of longing and appreciation to a God I thought listened. I used to pray daily, habitually, one might even say <i>religiously</i>, as an act of obedient worship and supplication to a God I thought cared. I used to pray intentionally, with a heart full of gratitude and wonder for a God I thought loved me. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>I used to pray. </i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I used to pray and listen, listen and pray. I used to hear God, and He used to hear me, because I used to think prayer mattered, and that maybe when I prayed it actually made a difference in the world. Like many of the things that used to define and direct my faith, I used to think prayer was important to my spiritual formation. And like many of the things that used to define and direct my faith, eventually I started to question its value.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As I questioned and wondered and prodded for understanding, my prayer life went from being a rich, meaningful experience to a tool I use to fight insomnia. Prayer became the kind of mindless activity that is so boring and un-engaging, it practically induces a coma. Like counting sheep, or taking slow breaths -- if I can't sleep, <i>I pray</i>.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H3nQtJn_9Ok/VP5GZ7ByT9I/AAAAAAAACEg/e3-TQuEXTX4/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-09%2Bat%2B6.18.03%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H3nQtJn_9Ok/VP5GZ7ByT9I/AAAAAAAACEg/e3-TQuEXTX4/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-09%2Bat%2B6.18.03%2BPM.png" height="235" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Initially, I was turned off by seeing so many flippant promises of prayer from people I knew wouldn't actually follow though. And by “people” I mean <i>me</i>. I used to do this all the time. Requests would be uttered, needs would be shared, sad stories were told, and I promised I would pray for them, but I rarely made good on my commitment. I almost never actually prayed for people after I told them I would. For me, “I'll pray for you” became like the Christian equivalent of “Take care.” It was simply a means for me to end a conversation with another person and walk away from them without assuming any personal responsibility for their future. Or their needs. Or their pain.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>It was like a spiritual easy out.</b><br /><a name='more'></a><b> </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Once I realize I was doing it, I knew something had to change. But instead of deciding to <strike>be a decent human being</strike> pray for people when I said I would, I just decided to stop saying “I'll pray for you.” Problem solved. ... And then? Because I'm an embarrassment to society and my brain doesn't know how to control my mouth, sometimes I would not only <i>not</i>say “I'll pray for you”, but I would go so far as to <i>replace it</i> with something else. Something worse. Something like,<i>“I'm not going to tell you 'I'll pray for you' because I probably won't, but sorry for your loss.” </i>Or <i>“...but I think you'll do great on your test.”</i> Or <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">“....but cancer totally sucks. I hope you live.”</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Because that's SO MUCH BETTER. Right? ….*sigh*... Ugh! I'm a douche, you guys.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Anyway. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The downfall of my prayer life didn't end there, because then I started to feel weird about the things I prayed about. I was told to bring all my cares to God, no matter how trivial or small, because He <i>wants</i> to hear all of it. Right? But it felt weird to pray to God for a sunny vacation and, also? War and famine and orphans. It felt wrong to ask God to <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2014/11/blessed.html" target="_blank">#Bless me</a> in my fluffy suburban life, while I was acutely aware of the greater suffering of others. I thought it was kind of icky to call for God's favor over t-ball games and car repairs and vet bills.... and, oh yeah, my friend whose husband is dying in hospice.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So my downward prayer spiral continued.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I didn't like the way Christians like to congratulate ourselves for "answered prayers” when we get what we want, but quickly shrug off things that don't go our way as “God's will”. The more I thought about it, the more I had a hard time believing that, first, we could somehow bend God's favor for our own benefit, and second that “His perfect will” included things like advanced leukemia, and starving babies, and dead Mama's, and, you know, like, <i>crimes against humanity</i> and stuff.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>It's just that I happen to think super shitty things <i>aren't</i> God's will. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I think bad things happen because we live in a broken place filled with messed up people who have terrible ideas, and because the Earth is covered in all kinds of other unpredictable living things, and also because <i>weather</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I could be wrong, but</span> I think “God's perfect will” for the mess we call life is that we would love and be loved by Him, but also that you and I would love one another through the inevitable pain and turmoil and tragedy that comes with living in this beautiful, dynamic, damaged world. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So that became kind of a problem, too, because if you believe in God's will, but you <span style="font-style: normal;">also</span> believe in Shit Happens, how then should you pray? </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Or I guess maybe the real question is: <i><b>Why</b></i><b> should you pray?</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I've seriously struggled with this question for like ever. <i>Why pray? </i><span style="font-style: normal;">If</span><i></i><span style="font-style: normal;">I don't see God as a cosmic wish granter whose magical genie powers can be conjured by the fervent prayers of men, then why should I bother to pray at all?</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">But, as much as I've managed to cheapen it over the years, I've never been able to fully shed prayer as a core value. For a while, it's just been sort of lingering in the background of my Faith, hoping to be picked up, longing to be embraced once again. More recently, though, I've dusted off the practice of prayer by actively, intentionally entering into conversations with God – and not as a sleep aid. I still can't say I understand it, I still have no idea how it works, but I think I can honestly say I've returned to prayer. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Over the past few months, I've had good reasons to pray - not for myself, but for others – through grief and heartache, through loss and through gain, and through celebration, through ups and downs and a bunch of WTF's, through gratitude and grace, through life and through death... I prayed for them. No, actually? I prayed<i> with them... </i></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">And<i> </i>that's when I remembered why we pray. </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qSXm7ltD_sw/VP5ILj88qAI/AAAAAAAACEs/qHHY-DZnQ44/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-09%2Bat%2B6.25.22%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qSXm7ltD_sw/VP5ILj88qAI/AAAAAAAACEs/qHHY-DZnQ44/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-09%2Bat%2B6.25.22%2BPM.png" height="227" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><h3 style="text-align: center;"><b>We pray because the God who knows us and sees us also </b><i><b>connects</b></i><b>us.</b></h3></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />When we pray for one another, we are acknowledging that <i>we are connected, </i>not just to God, but to each other. Your pain matters, not just to God, but <i>to me</i>. Your joy is delightful, not just to God, but <i>to me</i>. The suffering of this broken world must be addressed, not just by God, but <i>by me.</i></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">When Jesus shows us how to pray, He draws us into community, first with God, and then with each other:</span></span></div><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Our Father who art in heaven,</i></b></div><i><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>hallowed be thy name.</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Thy kingdom come.</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Thy will be done</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>on earth as it is in heaven.</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Give us this day our daily bread,</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>and forgive us our trespasses,</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>as we forgive those who trespass against us,</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>and lead us not into temptation,</b></div></b><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>but deliver us from evil.</b></div></b></i></h3><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">My Father, who art in Heaven...</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Give me this day my daily bread...</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Forgive me?</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Lead me?</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Deliver me?</div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Nope. Sorry. We're all in this together. </div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Among other things, prayer is an amazing reminder that through God we are all connected; He is with you, I tell you that all the time... but what if he also made me to be with you? So that <i>you</i>, Beloved of the Lord, know you are ne<span style="font-style: normal;">ver alone.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I think I had part of it right in the beginning; <b>God does listen</b>. God hears, God cares, God loves, and though I can't explain it, I believe God responds to our prayers. But what I didn't get was that to pray for another person is the opposite of taking an easy spiritual out. Whether they live down the hall, or across the street, or on the other side of the world, whether they are our friend or our enemy, when we pray for others, we should probably be open to the possibility that God's love, His justice, His grace, His mercy may need to flow through us in other, more tangible, ways. You know what I mean? Like, maybe God's perfect will is that we LOVE ONE ANOTHER<i>,</i><i>for real</i>, because life is hard and the world is screwed up and while we may know we need God... God knows we also need each other. </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">God IS, and shit happens, and prayer works - That's where I'm at. I understand how prayer brings you and me and God close about as well as I understand how I'm wirelessly connected to you right now through internet-magic. But I'm pretty sure that all of Creation is woven together in a tangled web of community, fully united by God, because we were never meant to be alone. </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">So let us honor our Father together. Let us work hand in hand to usher in the kingdom of Heaven on Earth. Let us pass our daily bread to one another. Let us forgive together. Let us hold each other up to receive forgiveness. Let us walk side by side as we seek paths of righteousness and encourage one another in our victories. </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Let us pray.</b></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="RIGHT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b>..................................................................................................................</b></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">&nbsp;Can I pray for you? Or, better yet, with you?<i> …. No. I mean it this time!</i></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><br /></i></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><br /></i></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/iaYkulpaOoA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/iaYkulpaOoA/let-us-pray.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/03/let-us-pray.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-2657066448478738738Thu, 19 Feb 2015 22:19:00 +00002015-03-03T09:03:03.865-08:00A Missionary's Position on 50 Shades of Grey<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">For the record, yes, I read the book and, yes, I watched the movie. And before we get into my&nbsp;review of them both, I want to offer you this tidbit of advice from&nbsp;the bottom of my&nbsp;crooked little heart -- <b><i>For the love of God, if you haven't already subjected yourself to either of these atrocities, spare yourself</i>.&nbsp;</b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If&nbsp;you haven't seen or read 50 Shades of Grey and you're not really sure what the fuss is about, perhaps&nbsp;because you were&nbsp;lucky enough to be stranded on a desert island for the past year or so, I wrote a brief summary, just for you -- <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/02/50-shades-of-omg-are-you-kidding-me.html" target="_blank">Read it HERE, and come back</a> -- We'll wait...</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Ok? Ok. Let's do this.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">First? The story in 50 Shades of Grey only “works” because Christian Grey is a hard-bodied Adonis with an insanely awesome penthouse, sleek cars, loads of cash, and, oh, </span><i>a helicopter</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.&nbsp;</span></span></b><span style="color: #131313;">If he was an ugly dude who worked at a gas station, rode a dirt bike, and invited a cute girl into a “play room” full of torture devices in the back of his doublewide trailer, we would all be disgusted.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><i>It's true and you know it.&nbsp;</i></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Take away the male hotness and the buckets of money and suddenly 50 Shades of Grey is a book about an insecure, young woman who meets a controlling, manipulative stalker, and finds herself in a mess of her own conflicting emotions. She enjoys being the object of his desire, but she's also intimidated by his demeanor. She's not comfortable with the things he's asking her to do, but he's only asking because she's “special” and he wants to share special moments with her. He smothers her, but only because he wants to protect her. And he punishes her, but only for her own good. She knows he's not perfect, but surely, if she sticks with him long enough, he'll change. She's freaked out by the demands she must meet to be in a relationship with this guy, but how else can she show him how much she really loves him?</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pWn0wVPnmws/VOZgKBuWxGI/AAAAAAAACDg/6vbbGvioWlc/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-19%2Bat%2B2.08.28%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pWn0wVPnmws/VOZgKBuWxGI/AAAAAAAACDg/6vbbGvioWlc/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-19%2Bat%2B2.08.28%2BPM.png" height="176" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">No one wants to read that book, no matter how hot the sex is, because </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>THAT</i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">is not a love story.&nbsp;</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #131313;">W</span>e all know someone who is<span style="color: #131313;"><i>living</i></span><span style="color: #131313;">that story and </span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>we do not envy her</i></span><span style="color: #131313;">.&nbsp;</span></b></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Most of us have watched painfully from the sidelines as a friend ignored serious red flags in favor of relationship - Any relationship! Even a super unhealthy one.</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>So why are we eating this stuff up? </b></span></span>Do we really <span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><i>like</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">the story of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey? Are our ideas of love and romance really this broken? Or are we just choosing to ignore the oogy parts because we enjoy a raunchy novel every now and again?</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Honestly? I would rather believe this stupid book blew up the way it did because it gave everybody and their sister a lady-boner, than because we are so dumb we can't see 50 Shades of Bullshit when it's right in front of our faces.&nbsp;</span></span>The real life story of 50 Shades goes like this: <span style="color: #131313;"><b>Christian Grey needs a therapist and Anastasia Steele needs to grow a pair.&nbsp;</b></span></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">Sorry, friends. That is just not a good story.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>But it is a relatable one.</i></b></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I mean, maybe there's a little bit of Anastasia Steele in all of us. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am drawn to&nbsp;</span>characters<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;like hers, I will admit, probably&nbsp;</span>because<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;I've spent a lot of my life feeling awkward, and clumsy, and ordinary, and little bit invisible -- and I'm not gonna lie, it's kind of nice to think that someone might see something special or valuable or good in me that I can't see in myself. And, like her, I've had my insecurities used against me by people who wanted to dominate me in some fashion, even people I loved. And I, too, have walked paths created by the insecurity of others, thinking, “If I just walk with him far enough, it will help him.”</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: bold;">Maybe it's not actually the dashing&nbsp;</span><b>billionaire, Christian Grey,</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>&nbsp;we fell in love with one poorly written page at a time, but plain old Ana. </b>Sweet Ana,<b>&nbsp;</b></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">finally picked first over her cooler, rich</span>er,&nbsp;<span style="font-family: inherit;">hotter best friend, finally learning how lovely she is, finally knowing she is desirable, and - most of all – finally feeling worthy. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Maybe.</i></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I mean, that still doesn't explain why so many people endured this terrible, awful, painfully bad book. Seriously, why God, </span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><i>WHYYYYY???</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">...</span><i> It </i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><i>has to be</i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">because it gives us the sexy-feel-goods.</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> That's the only reasonable explanation. This dictionary disaster of a book can only have become SO STINKIN' POPULAR because, ladies, when we read about sex, it makes us feel sexy. It makes us want to have sex. And we really like sex!&nbsp;</span>Can<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;I get a AMEN?! Like, can we all please just admit that's true? Say it with me now, “50 Shades of Grey makes us horny!”</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">We like reading about sex. <i>There. </i>It's said.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="288" mozallowfullscreen="" scrolling="no" src="http://www.hulu.com/embed.html?eid=pnyihkel1gfotv2dzkwkla" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="512"></iframe></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, it helped that </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">the type of sex </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">depicted in 50 Shades tested our imaginary sexual&nbsp;boundaries&nbsp;– that certainly made it a more interesting read. But I think Christian Grey's fetish could have been just about anything and, as long as the sex scenes were sufficiently steamy, we would have been ok with it. He could have demanded his woman be slathered in bacon grease, or that she put on a dinosaur costume and wait for him bent over a rocking chair. He could have asked Anastasia to wear a fake mustache while he gave her hickeys with a vacuum cleaner, and we probably would have kept reading.&nbsp;</span>Because<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;<i>whatever</i>. There's nothing wrong with liking weird things in bed. If you are in a healthy, committed, monogamous relationship (admittedly, I'd prefer the word marriage here, but, y'know...), and you've put in the time, effort, and emotion to get to a place where it's safe for both of you to try new things and maybe even explore your limits together, I say go for it. Your bedroom is your business. Go crazy. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><b>The problem with this book is not that it's about rough sex or BDSM or bedroom fetishes, it's that if we want to enter into that kind of space with another human being, we should <i>probably</i> try to get there through mutual trust and relational intimacy.</b><i>Not in a written contract. Not on a first date. And not under threat of rejection.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">&nbsp;</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There </span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><i>is</i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">bullying and abuse in 50 Shades of Grey, but I don't really think it happens in the bedroom. It happens when a rich, powerful, good-looking man exerts his money, power, and good looks to get his way&nbsp;</span>without the permission of the&nbsp;woman he wants to bone. (One example: He takes her beloved, crappy, old car and sells it without her knowledge, replacing it with an expensive new one. <i>Surprise! </i>We're supposed to think this is romantic, but really, it's just bullshit.) Quite&nbsp;frankly, the only way&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #131313;">50 Shades of Grey</span><span style="color: #131313;">&nbsp;could have gotten<i> so big</i> is that we&nbsp;consciously chose to ignore the icky underlying message of&nbsp;the story - that a woman should feel grateful to oblige a demanding, controlling, severely broken man if he's hot and rich -&nbsp;because we were too busy enjoying the sexy parts.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;">Right?!&nbsp;I mean,<i> that has to be it! </i>Otherwise, I DO NOT GET ITS MASS APPEAL.&nbsp;</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">Wh<span style="color: #131313;">ether or not we should be using romance novels as sexual stimulants is gonna have to be a whole other conversation. But the fact of the matter is that most women <i>do</i> get turned on by lit-porn – and not just by the explicit, overly-detailed, frenetically paced descriptions of impassioned sexual encounters, but also by the enduring fantasy of being </span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>seen</i></span><span style="color: #131313;">and </span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>wanted</i></span><span style="color: #131313;">.&nbsp;</span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">That's what most of us are seeking in our own relationships, isn't it? To be truly vulnerable</span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;and deeply loved </span><i style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">anyway</i><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">That might be the&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">only&nbsp;</span>redeeming piece&nbsp;<span style="font-family: inherit;">of this stupid, fucked up story - that what it all boils to in the end is&nbsp;</span>that all of us,<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;women</span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;and men, alike -- all the Anastasia Steeles and Christian Greys of the world -- we all&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #131313;">share in one great fear and one great need; to be <i>known</i>.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #131313;">W</span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">e are all longing for someone we perceive as valuable to look at us and say, “I see something amazing in you and I find it irresistible.”</span></b></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;">It's almost as if<i>&nbsp;<b><a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2011/08/who-told-you.html" target="_blank">we were Created to be loved and cherished,</a>&nbsp;</b></i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2011/08/who-told-you.html" target="_blank">and we're all dying to find our worth.</a>.. but if the 50 Shades of Grey phenomenon is any indication, we're looking for it in all the wrong places. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6918305754409517229" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6918305754409517229" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><br /><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D2657066448478738738&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F1.bp.blogspot.com%252F-pWn0wVPnmws%252FVOZgKBuWxGI%252FAAAAAAAACDg%252F6vbbGvioWlc%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-02-19%25252Bat%25252B2.08.28%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 26px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 522px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D2657066448478738738&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F1.bp.blogspot.com%252F-pWn0wVPnmws%252FVOZgKBuWxGI%252FAAAAAAAACDg%252F6vbbGvioWlc%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-02-19%25252Bat%25252B2.08.28%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 26px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 522px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/pVMkW4WW2hU" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/pVMkW4WW2hU/a-missionarys-position-on-50-shades-of.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/02/a-missionarys-position-on-50-shades-of.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-7514710730216214309Thu, 19 Feb 2015 22:19:00 +00002015-03-03T09:02:44.649-08:0050 Shades of.. OMG ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?!<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">The story got everyone talking and the sex scenes got everyone tingling, and then, to the horror of English lit majors and book publishers everywhere, E.L. James lusty novel,&nbsp;</span><b style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><u>50 Shades of Grey,&nbsp;</u></b><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">spread across the nation like a literary strain of herpes.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I read the whole book.&nbsp;</span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I sat through the whole movie.&nbsp;</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I survived the 50 Shades of Grey phenomenon and lived to tell about it... So that's what I'm doing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I don't even want to talk about how truly, exceptionally, remarkably bad the writing is, so I'll only say this; </span><b>The writing is </b></span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i><b>the worst! </b></i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">At this point, it's pretty much universally accepted that 50 Shades of Grey does not owe its popularity to prose. If you need an example of why, google it. Or you can just trust me when I say that, as far as books go, this is a really shitty one.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">For those who are completely unfamiliar with 50 Shades of Grey, perhaps because you're lucky enough to have been in a coma or lost in the woods for the past year or so, the story goes like this: </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Anastasia Steele is a socially awkward, clumsy, nerd-virgin</b> who has no idea how super-duper hot she is under her frumpy cardigan sweater and messy ponytail. </span></span>But when <b>Christian Grey (the youngest, hottest billionaire in all the land</b>) meets her, he instantly sees her naughty sex-kitten potential, and then she bites her lip and it's all over - he's smitten. He must have her! And by “have” I mean “own”. So he buys her.<span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><i>Sort of. </i></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F-mGPtVHeDa44%2FVOY5DE_XLvI%2FAAAAAAAACC4%2FF8t5r_yQIBw%2Fs1600%2FScreen%252BShot%252B2015-02-19%252Bat%252B11.26.00%252BAM.png&amp;container=blogger&amp;gadget=a&amp;rewriteMime=image%2F*" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mGPtVHeDa44/VOY5DE_XLvI/AAAAAAAACC4/F8t5r_yQIBw/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-19%2Bat%2B11.26.00%2BAM.png" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Anastasia is smart and educated, and she isn't really sure she wants to be bought, so whenever he spends tons of money on her she tells herself that she will give his extravagant gifts back eventually. That way it's more like a loan, </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>or a rental agreement, </i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">and she feels much better about receiving costly gifts of books and clothes and computers and cars. SHE'S NOT GOING TO KEEP THEM, YOU GUYS. Anastasia Steel is a strong, independent woman and she will not be bought! So there. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Then there's this boring part where Christian starts to feel bad because he knows what he wants to do to Ana (which is tie her up and flog her) and so he pushes Anna away because he doesn't want to hurt her. I mean, </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>he does, </i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">but he's a gentleman. He wants to take care of her. So for a minute he just, y'know, watches her and looks after her and protects her and stuff. Like a big </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><strike><span style="font-style: normal;">stalker</span></strike></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">brother. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Some more things happen, I don't remember what, until </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>finally </i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Christian Grey is so deeply attracted to this unusual girl, so utterly enthralled by her natural beauty, so taken by her charm, SO TOTALLY TURNED ON BY THIS LIP BITING MINX HE CANNOT WAIT ANOTHER MINUTE TO BE WITH HER...so he has his lawyer draw up a non-disclosure for her to sign and return. Which she does.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;">So now they're like </span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>almost</i></span><span style="color: #131313;">in a relationship. SQUEEEEE!!!</span></b><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">But wait! Christian has more paperwork for her to sign before he can “date” her, because </span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><i>romance</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">. And also because it turns out this gorgeous, wealthy, hunk of man-candy comes with a liiiiiitle bit of baggage she needs to know about. He reveals his secret fetish to Anastasia by showing her his “play room” full of whips and chains and sex contraptions, and he explains that he likes women who like it rough. The rougher the better - but only as long as everyone is having a good time.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Cool? Cool.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">But wait! Anastasia has a little secret of her own. Because, even though they've known each other for like two whole weeks, she's failed to mention that she's still a virgin. So when Christian tries to talk to her about sex and stuff, she bites her lip and admits that she's never, y' know, </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>done it</i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">before. *womp womp* But Christian really likes this girl</span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>, </i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">so he's not about to let the inconvenience of an intact hymen get in the way of the possibility of their future mutually agreed upon relationship terms. So, like a true gentleman, he takes care of business, and Ana's first time is a festival of orgasms. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">In fact, her very first sexual experience is so awesome - and not at all awkward or fumbly or goopy – she is like, <b>“WAIT. IS THAT WHAT SEX IS LIKE?!?! I WANT MORE!!! GIMME GIMME GIMME!!!” </b></span></span><b></b></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And he's like “Whoa girl, there's more where that came from. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line.” </span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">By this time, you've got the idea that Christian Gray has some kind of weird sexual preferences, but he is pleasantly surprised by how much he liked having non-weird sex with Anastasia, </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>just this once. </i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">He thinks her potential for weird sex is so great, he practically gets down on one knee to ask her to be his submissive sex partner. He tells her how he wants to dominate her in his play room, and he gives Anastasia a big, fat contract and a brand new laptop and tells her to do some research into the whole dominant/submissive thing. Which she does, cause she's cool like that.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">At this point Ana is starting to think she </span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><i>might</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">be seeing some red flags, like,</span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><i>everywhere. </i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>But Christian is super hot. And super rich. </b>So she decides to think about it. While she thinks about it, they are cute with each other via email and text.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">He is just dying for her to say yes to his proposal, and when it's time for her to make the big decision, she's basically like, “Alright, fine, I'll be your submissive. </span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><i>But no fisting</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">.” And Christian decides he can live without fisting, so it's all good. </span></span><b><span style="color: #131313;"><i>UGH</i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>SO ROMANTIC!</i></span></b><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b></b>So she signs a contract agreeing that he can tell her what to eat, what to wear, how often to exercise, and when and where to sleep. Among other things, she also agrees not to touch him or look him in the eye during sex and not to disobey him in any way. Plus, she agrees to being spanked as a form of punishment if she breaks any of his rules. Oh! And she agrees to wait for him naked, on her knees, head down, with her hair in a braid whenever she is beckoned to the boom-boom play room.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">At first, she's kinda freaked out. But then she gets spanked for rolling her eyes and afterward Christian rubs her butt with lotion, and he is so sweet and tender toward her sore, beaten ass, she can't help but swoon a little. In the playroom, some whipping and flogging happens, but he is mostly gentle and kind as he grooms her to be more to his liking. They take it slow and much to her surprise, Anastasia finds out she's kind of into it. Like, it actually feels </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>kinda good. </i></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><b style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal;">Many more orgasms occur.&nbsp;</b><span style="font-family: inherit;">So many that&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">you start to think Christian Grey</span>&nbsp;is just a show off.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RAMTYhx_W9o/VOY645nTZXI/AAAAAAAACDE/z8eRh4QeATo/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-19%2Bat%2B11.33.54%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RAMTYhx_W9o/VOY645nTZXI/AAAAAAAACDE/z8eRh4QeATo/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-19%2Bat%2B11.33.54%2BAM.png" height="320" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Wait. What?!</b></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Between orgasms we learn things about this mysterious, bondage loving, philanthropist. Dark things. Things that make us go, </span><i>“OOoooOOhhh, that makes sense!”</i></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">We find out the smokin' hot, gazillionaire was a crack-baby, tortured and starved in early childhood, rescued by rich people after he is severely traumatized by his birth mother's gruesome death, then sexually abused as a teenager by his adoptive Mom's BFF, who he swears is </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>not a child molester</i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">, just a “really good friend”. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Ooookay.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Naturally, Anastasia is like, “Oh my!” And she needs a little space to process all that's happened, so she flies out to visit her Mom on the East Coast and take a&nbsp;</span>little break<span style="font-family: inherit;">. Like 5 minutes later, Christian shows up. Because he cares about her! NOT because he is obsessed, or controlling, or creepy. <b>IT'S ROMANTIC, YOU GUYS! </b>The whole time, Anastasia is confused by her feelings, because she doesn't really like being stalked and controlled, and she can plainly see that this guy is like </span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><i>super fucked up</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">, but </span></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><i>she loves him</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">and she wants to help him get better and she thinks that maybe if she just hangs in there, eventually he might let her touch him during sex. Or make eye contact. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RGU8CtA6Clo/VOY_nbKLXpI/AAAAAAAACDU/orAvyR1XXP0/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-19%2Bat%2B11.54.48%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RGU8CtA6Clo/VOY_nbKLXpI/AAAAAAAACDU/orAvyR1XXP0/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-19%2Bat%2B11.54.48%2BAM.png" height="146" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love is SO confusing! <br />Am I hot, or am I a dork?!<br />I DON'T EVEN KNOW ANY MORE!!!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>All these big feelings make her bite her lip. A lot. </b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">When they get back to his rich people apartment, something I can't remember happens, and they get into a heated argument and Anastasia tells Christian to spank her as hard as he wants, so he does, and afterward he tries to rub some lotion on her butt to help her feel better, but she will not have it. </span></span><span style="color: #131313;"><i>Girl is PISSED. </i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Then she's all, ''I don't think I can do this.” And she gives him all his expensive gifts back (thereby ending her unwritten rental agreement) and she leaves. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">She never wants to see Christian Grey again! But, also, she wants to marry him. She wants to slap him! But she also wants to kiss him. She definitely doesn't want him to slap her </span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><i>with anything</i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;ever again! Except maybe a little. Mostly, she just wants to forget she ever met him... and slept with him... and let him strip her, tie her to a bed, and drool champagne into her mouth, baby-bird style. (Because </span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;"><i>that </i></span><span style="color: #131313; font-family: inherit;">happened.)</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><b><span style="font-style: normal;">You guys, </span><i>love is so confusing!</i></b><span style="font-style: normal;"> <b>ANASTASIA STEELE DOESN'T KNOW </b></span></span><b><span style="color: #131313;"><i>WHAT</i></span><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">SHE WANTS ANY MORE!</span></span></b></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The end.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Good grief.&nbsp;</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;">I have so many thoughts about 50 Shades of Grey, I don't even know where to begin... &nbsp;</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #131313;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #131313;"><a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/02/a-missionarys-position-on-50-shades-of.html" target="_blank"><b>CLICK HERE FOR MY FULL REVIEW!!!</b></a></span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/-3zft9UYSQo" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/-3zft9UYSQo/50-shades-of-omg-are-you-kidding-me.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/02/50-shades-of-omg-are-you-kidding-me.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-7869906665236996987Tue, 10 Feb 2015 18:31:00 +00002015-02-10T10:59:16.565-08:00Not exactly "Newsworthy", but here we are...<div>I keep hearing that podcasts are the new blog, so I guess it's a good thing Luke Norsworthy was kind enough to have me on his podcast, <a href="http://lukenorsworthy.com/2015/02/10/jamie-wright-the-very-worst-missionary/" target="_blank">Newsworthy with Norsworthy.</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>You <i>should not </i>listen to it. I promise. Instead, you should go over to Luke's site and pick out a different interview, like <a href="http://lukenorsworthy.com/2015/01/28/donald-miller-scary-close/" target="_blank">this one</a> with Donald Miller, or maybe&nbsp;<a href="http://lukenorsworthy.com/2015/01/17/n-t-wright-simply-good-news/" target="_blank">this one</a> with NT Wright, or definitely&nbsp;<a href="http://lukenorsworthy.com/2014/11/18/barbara-brown-taylor-round-two/" target="_blank">this one</a>&nbsp;with Barbara Brown Taylor, and then listen to that. You will thank me.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>But<a href="http://lukenorsworthy.com/2015/02/10/jamie-wright-the-very-worst-missionary/" target="_blank"> if you do insist on listening to my interview</a>,&nbsp;please accept my sincere apology in advance for the following:&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div><b>~ the overuse of the word "like".&nbsp;</b></div><div><b>~ that thing I said about Camaros</b></div><div><b>~ threatening to strangle an old lady</b></div><div><b>~ stretching "shit" into a 4 syllable word</b></div><div><b>~ the vagina story (Really, I am so, so, so, sorry about this.&nbsp;<i>SO sorry</i>.)</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>There. I have apologized and you have been warned. Do not write me an angry email.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ok. Here you go...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.podbean.com/media/player/embed/postId/5485485?url=http%3A%2F%2FNewsworthywithNorsworthy.podbean.com%2Fe%2Fjamie-wright-the-very-worst-missionary%2F"><iframe frameborder="0" height="100" id="audio_iframe" scrolling="no" src="http://www.podbean.com/media/player/bjx48-53b3ad/initByJs/1/auto/1" width="100%"></iframe></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Or...</i></span></b></div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DkJ6DtPLzkg/VNpMHw08jtI/AAAAAAAACCg/ve4OYZfO8QU/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-10%2Bat%2B10.16.50%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DkJ6DtPLzkg/VNpMHw08jtI/AAAAAAAACCg/ve4OYZfO8QU/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-10%2Bat%2B10.16.50%2BAM.png" height="267" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...g<a href="http://lukenorsworthy.com/" target="_blank">o listen to one of these actual newsworthy people.</a>&nbsp;Seriously.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b><b><br /></b><b>Have I mentioned I'm sorry?...</b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/W9DIvFPuhH8" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/W9DIvFPuhH8/not-exactly-newsworthy-but-here-we-are.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/02/not-exactly-newsworthy-but-here-we-are.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-9001517866126785807Mon, 02 Feb 2015 23:05:00 +00002015-02-10T10:46:11.435-08:00Because Sharing is Caring, Vol. 203<br />The internet can be a cesspool of ardent opinion, gossip mongering, unrestrained certainty, and condescending correction. Or it can be <i>awesome</i>. Sometimes between scrolling through raging <a href="https://twitter.com/JamieTheVWM" target="_blank">Twitter</a> battles and rolling my eyes at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jamietheveryworstmissionary" target="_blank">Facebook</a> comment threads, I actually come across something useful, or funny, or good. When this happens, I feel a deep sense of responsibility to pay it forward; These little nuggets of gold must be shared in order to disrupt the internet's death spiral into utter ridiculousness. So here are my latest favorite finds:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt; &gt; &lt;&gt; &lt; &lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b></div><br /><b><a href="http://www.thredup.com/r/GZ0WT6" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">ThredUP</a></b><br />I don't remember how I came across this site - it might have popped up in my email - but I checked it out and now I kind of LOVE IT OMG SO MUCH. Y'know how I'm always looking for creative ways to shop responsibly in order to not contribute to the slavery and exploitation of people,<i> but also </i>not look like a transient who just jumped off a moving train? Enter <a href="http://www.thredup.com/r/GZ0WT6" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">ThredUP</a>, an online consignment store with page after page of second hand fashion.<br /><a name='more'></a><br /><br />At first I found the whole idea intimidating. There's an art to looking at a tiny picture of a rumpled top and knowing what it will look like on your body; I imagine this instinct develops over time, but I'm not there. Regardless, I decided to go balls out on my first order and do something totally crazy, so I thought I'd try to get some jeans. Yes, <i>JEANS --&nbsp;The 2nd most terrifying and unpredictable item of clothing a woman can try on.</i><br /><i><br /></i>I looked at approximately ten thousand different options, picked 2, and headed to the checkout.<br /><br />I got this pair of Urban Outfitter jeans for like $8. AND THEY FIT! <i>I KNOW. </i>I CAN'T BELIEVE IT EITHER! They're <i>definitely</i> worn in, so who knows how much life is left in them, but they already have that favorite-pair-of-old-jeans feel, which is kind of great.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--lPJYBLUtNc/VM_nn6afwMI/AAAAAAAACBc/I4YUonIKCpg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B1.08.25%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--lPJYBLUtNc/VM_nn6afwMI/AAAAAAAACBc/I4YUonIKCpg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B1.08.25%2BPM.png" height="200" width="156" /></a></div>&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gZrkGJUHkoY/VM_nn2ANVhI/AAAAAAAACBU/QS9GCTk4FeM/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B1.08.55%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gZrkGJUHkoY/VM_nn2ANVhI/AAAAAAAACBU/QS9GCTk4FeM/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B1.08.55%2BPM.png" height="200" width="151" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5VD5Bf5WJpA/VM_nnlZhnvI/AAAAAAAACBQ/KMu-u-h_rpQ/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B1.08.43%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5VD5Bf5WJpA/VM_nnlZhnvI/AAAAAAAACBQ/KMu-u-h_rpQ/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B1.08.43%2BPM.png" height="200" width="143" /></a><br /><br />The other pair was a little more expensive - around $25 - and ended up being too big. So back they go. No big deal.<br /><br />I'm definitely a fan. I'll also be sending in a bag of clothes for consignment one of these days. So excited! <b><a href="http://www.thredup.com/r/GZ0WT6" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Sign up and ThredUP will give you $10 toward your first order</a>.</b><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt; &gt; &lt;&gt; &lt; &lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>S</b>peaking of transients jumping off trains. <a href="http://mikebrodie.net/projects/gallery/" target="_blank">This guy and the pics he took</a>, at 18 years old, as he train-hopped across America and back are spectacular. Though his epic photos have won gobs of awards, he didn't grow up to be a photographer, because apparently <i>"photography just isn't [his] thing"</i>. So he's a mechanic.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">** warning, some of the pics in his gallery are... um...&nbsp;<i>icky&nbsp;</i>**&nbsp;</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OWtH5UOa4ZU/VM_1Kv8dPGI/AAAAAAAACBw/NjxKtsBwHdQ/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B2.06.51%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OWtH5UOa4ZU/VM_1Kv8dPGI/AAAAAAAACBw/NjxKtsBwHdQ/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B2.06.51%2BPM.png" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://mikebrodie.net/projects/gallery/" target="_blank">Photo by Mike Brodie</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3VwlFFeDDgc/VM_1flHbWXI/AAAAAAAACB4/-xTZbnJUeXA/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B2.08.41%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3VwlFFeDDgc/VM_1flHbWXI/AAAAAAAACB4/-xTZbnJUeXA/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B2.08.41%2BPM.png" height="427" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://mikebrodie.net/projects/gallery/" target="_blank">Photo by Mike Brodie</a></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt; &gt; &lt;&gt; &lt; &lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b></div></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Lately, I've been fascinated by the way people treat each other.</b> Online, offline, at work, at church, on the road, in restaurants, on planes - It just seems like we're losing a sense of our humanity or something. Whatever it is, it's disturbing. So when I read this book, <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1250030714/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&amp;camp=1789&amp;creative=390957&amp;creativeASIN=1250030714&amp;linkCode=as2&amp;tag=jamtheverworm-20&amp;linkId=ERAIPPEMU3G7ZZQU%22%3EGood%20Manners%20for%20Nice%20People%20Who%20Sometimes%20Say%20F*ck%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=jamtheverworm-20&amp;l=as2&amp;o=1&amp;a=1250030714%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20!important;%20margin:0px%20!important;%22%20/%3E" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Good Manners for Nice People Who Sometimes Say F*ck, by Amy Alkon</a>, I found the overall premiss refreshing. I sincerely appreciated the blunt reminder that it's really not that hard to treat others with kindness and respect - it's just the right thing to do. The sciency bit in the first chapter about <i>WHY</i> we've become an entire society of douchebags was particularly enlightening.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1250030714/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&amp;camp=1789&amp;creative=390957&amp;creativeASIN=1250030714&amp;linkCode=as2&amp;tag=jamtheverworm-20&amp;linkId=6FXGJHLQTFMX5253"><img border="0" src="http://ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&amp;ASIN=1250030714&amp;Format=_SL250_&amp;ID=AsinImage&amp;MarketPlace=US&amp;ServiceVersion=20070822&amp;WS=1&amp;tag=jamtheverworm-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=jamtheverworm-20&amp;l=as2&amp;o=1&amp;a=1250030714" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt; &gt; &lt;&gt; &lt; &lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Current favorite song: I Bet My Life - from Imagine Dragons</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4ht80uzIhNs" width="560"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt; &gt; &lt;&gt; &lt; &lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b><br /><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Oh. If you haven't already? </b><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">The&nbsp;<a href="http://serialpodcast.org/" target="_blank">Serial Podcast.</a>&nbsp;</span> <i>Just trust me on this one.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://serialpodcast.org/season-one/1/the-alibi" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-02CQgUuuFGQ/VNACLs-SMuI/AAAAAAAACCQ/i3tEcx7kSyU/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B3.02.45%2BPM.png" height="190" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt; &gt; &lt;&gt; &lt; &lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b></div><div><b><br /></b><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Last but not least, <a href="http://www.unexpected.org/2015/01/oils-can-save-us-zombie-apocalypse/" target="_blank">this blog post&nbsp;about essential oils</a>. I wish I wrote it.&nbsp;</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.unexpected.org/2015/01/oils-can-save-us-zombie-apocalypse/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kt4PgN-trLk/VNABbpihlmI/AAAAAAAACCI/HgHOGQCqh40/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-02-02%2Bat%2B2.59.30%2BPM.png" height="238" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><div><b>&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt; &gt; &lt;&gt; &lt; &lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;</b></div></div><div><b><br /></b><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Ok. Your turn! Share your delightful internet finds&nbsp;with the rest of us...</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div><b><br /></b></div></div></div></div></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D9001517866126785807%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dallposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dallposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F1.bp.blogspot.com%252F-OWtH5UOa4ZU%252FVM_1Kv8dPGI%252FAAAAAAAACBw%252FNjxKtsBwHdQ%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-02-02%25252Bat%25252B2.06.51%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 33px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1071px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/O82B04gQfMA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/O82B04gQfMA/because-sharing-is-caring-vol-203.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/02/because-sharing-is-caring-vol-203.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-7187366224191287979Thu, 29 Jan 2015 20:39:00 +00002015-02-10T10:45:55.813-08:00Guilt vs Shame, part 2: There's a BIG Difference<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This is the second half of a two part series on Shame from my real life friend and legit theologian, Libby Vincent. Be sure to <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/01/guilt-vs-shame-part-1-can-guilt-be-good.html" target="_blank">read part 1, here!</a></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><b>..................................................................................................................................................</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><u><br /></u></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><u>The BIG Difference Between Guilt and Shame</u></h3><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">In <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/01/guilt-vs-shame-part-1-can-guilt-be-good.html" target="_blank">my last post</a>, I talked about guilt. Now I want to talk about shame.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I've been working hard at understanding shame. It wasn't really my choice-it just happened. About two years ago &nbsp;a bunch of unforeseen losses in my life pretty much broke me - I was depressed, listless and almost hopeless. &nbsp;Once I got out of the fog, I began to dismantle deep messages of shame from my past and began to believe in God's message of worth. God used some key people in my life during this time: my family and friends (who stood with me and held me up); my spiritual director (who helped me expand my theological lens); my therapist (who embodies grace and wholeness to me), and the work of <a href="http://brenebrown.com/" target="_blank">Dr. Brené Brown</a> (who has researched and written extensively on shame and vulnerability)&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">As I did with guilt, here's a working definition of shame - shame is:</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>"....the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging."</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The primary difference between guilt and shame is this: &nbsp;<b>guilt is about what we do; shame is about who we are</b>. It may seem like a difference of semantics, but it's more than that. Guilt says "lying to my boss was wrong"; shame says "you're a liar." Shame labels us with names like liar, loser, failure, ugly, stupid. Shame shouts "you'll never be man enough; you're a drunk; a pervert; a lazy slob; your body, mind, house, car, children -- your faith -- isn't perfect enough". Shame is what the devil uses to convince us we aren't worthy of God's love and never will be. Shame demoralizes, dehumanizes, and paralyzes us with fear.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CA94PjGQeqg/VMqWm735HAI/AAAAAAAACAI/uinXZ8ZXQCU/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B11.47.29%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CA94PjGQeqg/VMqWm735HAI/AAAAAAAACAI/uinXZ8ZXQCU/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B11.47.29%2BAM.png" /></a>Sadly, shame is prolific in the church: the one place that could be a safe haven from shame is often the place that shames us the most. But it doesn't have to be that way. The church can work against the destructive forces of shame. <b>Instead of being a broker of shame, the Church can be a conduit of worth.</b> I think we can do this work by encouraging one another to work through our shame, and expose it for what it is - <i>lies</i>. We can use tools like therapy and spiritual direction to help us know where we are vulnerable to shame. We can teach and preach on shame, helping people understand what it is and how it works. When we speak against shame - it doesn't mean we don't take sin seriously.&nbsp;</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">We are people with brokenness; we sin, but our sin does not define who we are. &nbsp;When we believe WE ARE BAD we can't recognize God's voice of acceptance because we are too busy trying to perform and clean up for God. We can't be representatives of God when shame owns us, because it makes us angry, hostile and fractured people. In an effort to alleviate ourselves from our own sense of worthlessness and self hatred, we release the venom of vitriol, cynicism and judgment upon others. This is not how God wants us to live. <i><b>God wants us to live out of our worth</b></i> - given to us at creation, redeemed through Jesus, and made complete at the end of time. Our identity as belonging to God is what gives us our worth (Genesis 1.31). When we believe that nothing and no one can change our standing as Gcd's beloved, sin becomes less attractive, coping mechanisms we have used to avoid our shame lose their appeal, and compassion for ourselves and others increases. Miraculous things happen. Healing and wholeness happens. Life giving choices happen. Christ in us happens.<br /><a name='more'></a></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">In this life, shame will always be around. But shame doesn't have to have the last word. We can be proactive by calling out shame and ushering it to the door marked EXIT. It won't be easy. It's painful and can feel overwhelming. &nbsp;It takes courage. But sometimes we have to experience 'crucifixion' so we can have 'resurrection.' <b>Sometimes SOMETHING has to die -- our shame -- so that SOMEONE can live - like you and me.&nbsp;</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><b>.......................................................................................................................................................</b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mu5IzP83_70/VMfvOz1aQ1I/AAAAAAAAB_0/dekgnzws4hg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B12.00.39%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mu5IzP83_70/VMfvOz1aQ1I/AAAAAAAAB_0/dekgnzws4hg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B12.00.39%2BPM.png" height="200" width="188" /></a></div><div style="color: #222222;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Libby Vincent</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">&nbsp;became a follower of Jesus in the&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">middle of her college years. Knowing that she was&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">being called by God to full time professional&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ministry, she pursued her education which led her to Pasadena, CA, Edinburgh, Scotland, and Berlin, Germany. She currently teaches for Fuller Seminary Northern California in the area of Systemic Theology and Theology and Film. Libby resides in Folsom with her husband of 22 years, Dan, and her two teenagers, Maggie and Trent.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><b>................................................................................................................................................................</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"></div></div><div><br /></div><div>To be honest, friends, the concepts of Guilt and Shame have been hard for me to untangle in my own life, since they are so often wrapped up together. But learning how to untangle that knot and recognize the difference has been a life-giving process for me. I hope this little series has encouraged you to do the same.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Ok, Libby.</b><i><b> WHAT'S NEXT?!</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div><b>..... &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; .......... &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; .....</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Have you been able to let shame die, so that you might wholly live?&nbsp;</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dsidebar&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-mu5IzP83_70%252FVMfvOz1aQ1I%252FAAAAAAAAB_0%252Fdekgnzws4hg%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-01-27%25252Bat%25252B12.00.39%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 73px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 998px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dsidebar&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-mu5IzP83_70%252FVMfvOz1aQ1I%252FAAAAAAAAB_0%252Fdekgnzws4hg%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-01-27%25252Bat%25252B12.00.39%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 73px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 998px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dsidebar&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-mu5IzP83_70%252FVMfvOz1aQ1I%252FAAAAAAAAB_0%252Fdekgnzws4hg%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-01-27%25252Bat%25252B12.00.39%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 73px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 998px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dsidebar&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-mu5IzP83_70%252FVMfvOz1aQ1I%252FAAAAAAAAB_0%252Fdekgnzws4hg%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-01-27%25252Bat%25252B12.00.39%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 73px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 998px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/uDdgAGJTbdA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/uDdgAGJTbdA/guilt-vs-shame-part-2-theres-big.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/01/guilt-vs-shame-part-2-theres-big.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-6899974856830415369Tue, 27 Jan 2015 20:52:00 +00002015-01-29T14:49:10.340-08:00Guilt vs Shame, part 1: Can Guilt Be Good?<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>I know this is weird</b>, but not all of the brilliant people in the world write and post blogs from which we may glean wisdom and inspiration. <i>Crazy, right?! I know!&nbsp;</i>But it's true - some awesome people can only be found&nbsp;<i>in real life. </i>I love it when I&nbsp;get to introduce you to one of my awesome real life people, and today is one of those days. I cannot even begin to tell you what this woman's friendship has meant to me over the last couple of years, but I will say that when the stars align and we both have, like,&nbsp;<i>a whole entire hour</i> free for coffee, Libby breathes life into me. Every time I see her, I wish I could share her with you. You'll see why...</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><b>.................................................................................................................................................</b></div><h4 style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></h4><h4 style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Can Guilt Be Good?</u></b></h4><div><b><br /></b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A while back - and by a while I mean 2 years ago - Jamie and I were having coffee and she said "will you guest post on my blog?" &nbsp;I nodded my head nonchalantly and said "yeah, definitely." &nbsp;And then I hoped she would forget. In my head I thought 'no way. I can't write for your blog. Jamie , YOU are a blogger. I'm...' I didn't even know what I was-I was just NOT a blogger. But she didn't forget and I got over my insecurity (almost). &nbsp;I'm ready to blog and I want to blog on shame. Why shame? I think shame is one of the biggest tools if not THE biggest tool in the arsenal of the devil and the topic doesn't get discussed much in churches. And, I &nbsp;have been learning a lot about the topic over the past two years -- as in <i>first hand.</i> The idea of shame isn't new to me, but sometimes you know about something (i.e. intellectual knowing) and other times you KNOW something (i.e. in your bones/gut knowing). It is almost as if I had to have a face to face with my own shame to realize how powerful and destructive shame is to all of us.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">If we are going to understand shame, we have to distinguish between it and its close cousin, guilt. &nbsp;Here's a working definition of guilt:</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>1.<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>The fact or state of having committed an offense, crime, violation, or wrong, esp. against&nbsp;moral or penal law;</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>2.<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>A feeling of responsibility or remorse for some offense, crime, wrong, etc., whether real&nbsp;or imagined.</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Thank you dictionary.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4Ye5x6A3nV8/VMfvNidR58I/AAAAAAAAB_w/4axt62LCUFk/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B11.46.38%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4Ye5x6A3nV8/VMfvNidR58I/AAAAAAAAB_w/4axt62LCUFk/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B11.46.38%2BAM.png" /></a></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Guilt is like a two sided coin: one side has an imprint of an offense and the other side, an imprint of our feelings about said event; we think or do or say something that falls outside of the parameters of a moral law to which we ascribe, and we have feelings about it. Within this rudimentary definition of guilt there is an important distinction between unhealthy and healthy guilt. My personal definition of &nbsp;unhealthy guilt is &nbsp;"blaming someone else for not getting what you want." &nbsp;We have feelings (usually those that make us uncomfortable or we don't like) and we would rather not discuss them openly and honestly, so we shroud them in unhealthy guilt messages like: "you never call me" or "everyone else is going to the family reunion..." Unhealthy guilt points and blames; healthy guilt acknowledges and restores.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">From God's perspective guilt is ultimately about broken relationship. It isn't just a Law that is broken or a specific sin, it's a connection to the divine that is torn and fractured. And while a system of offerings was set up to restore and maintain connection with God in the Old Testament, it is in Christ that we are relieved of the consequences of messing with our relationship with God.<br /><a name='more'></a></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">With this information in mind, there are a couple of ways guilt can be our friend. First, guilt can remind us we are created in the image of God (imago dei). We experience this connection between guilt and the imago dei through conscience. Conscience is part of what makes us unique as humans: we contemplate our actions and make moral self-evaluations. Conscience is not perfectly the voice of God within us but it does point to God's image in us. &nbsp;</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Second, guilt reveals the importance of relationship and reconciliation. When we are guilty, we are called to make things right and so we ask forgiveness, we make some kind of amends and we model what reconciliation looks like. Guilts' innate connection to relationship is the tool that enables us to re-establish relationship with God and with one another. &nbsp;We show each other and the world God's model for how relationship works.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>Guilt has a purpose. </b>Guilt, when viewed appropriately, is good. <i>Where things go awry is when guilt becomes confused with shame&nbsp;</i>- and if you don't read the next post I guess you are ...oh sorry - I was just about to shame you...</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><b>.................................................................................................................................................</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mu5IzP83_70/VMfvOz1aQ1I/AAAAAAAAB_0/dekgnzws4hg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B12.00.39%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mu5IzP83_70/VMfvOz1aQ1I/AAAAAAAAB_0/dekgnzws4hg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-27%2Bat%2B12.00.39%2BPM.png" height="200" width="188" /></a></div><div style="color: #222222; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Libby Vincent</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> became a follower of Jesus in the middle of her college years. Knowing that she was being called by God to full time professional ministry, she pursued her education which led her to Pasadena, CA, Edinburgh, Scotland, and Berlin, Germany. She currently teaches for Fuller Seminary Northern California in the area of Systemic Theology and Theology and Film. Libby resides in Folsom with her husband of 22 years, Dan, and her two teenagers, Maggie and Trent.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><b>......................................................................................................................................................</b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><b>Be sure to come back on Thursday <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/01/guilt-vs-shame-part-2-theres-big.html" target="_blank">for part 2, Libby's take on Shame</a>.</b> ( I...&nbsp;*ahem*.. I mean, <i>you</i>, <i>YOU&nbsp;</i>seriously need to hear this one.)</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">Ok. What about it -<i> Do you think guilt is a good thing?&nbsp;</i></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/Cy7PRXeeNtw" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/Cy7PRXeeNtw/guilt-vs-shame-part-1-can-guilt-be-good.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/01/guilt-vs-shame-part-1-can-guilt-be-good.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-4601987330447261776Wed, 07 Jan 2015 21:44:00 +00002015-01-07T19:26:30.890-08:00Depression Is Not A Scandal<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">For the second time in a month my big, beige, suburban community is mourning the loss of a life to suicide. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2014/12/remember-ronin.html" target="_blank">A few short weeks ago, we despaired to learn we'd lost 12 year old Ronin Shimizu.</a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Last weekend we lost another friend, a 46 year old father of two, to the vice-like grip of depression.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In the aftermath of these two tragedies, a lot of people are asking themselves what they could have done differently. There's so much regret to carry, and the tendency is to wish we'd paid better attention, that we'd been more attentive to one who was clearly suffering in our midst. It's hard not to shoulder the blame or harbor guilt for not having been there – for not stopping it.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>But sometimes there is no stopping it.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Sometimes there's nothing anyone could have done, because, like many other chemically treatable illnesses, sometimes depression can be fatal. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My husband just talked to this friend on Christmas Eve and says everything seemed fine. “<i><span style="font-weight: normal;">He seemed happy.”</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> These are the words we hear all too often after someone we love succumbs to the crushing weight of depression.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KuTgkgGywh8/VK2jkb9VKvI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/dwLL7wW8zhw/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-07%2Bat%2B1.21.37%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KuTgkgGywh8/VK2jkb9VKvI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/dwLL7wW8zhw/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-01-07%2Bat%2B1.21.37%2BPM.png" height="319" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Total Wednesday Addams.<br />&nbsp;...But, like, if Wednesday Addams&nbsp;was from California.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I've struggled with depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember. Like, </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">even as a small child</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I had performance anxiety so bad that every day during 3rd grade math I broke out in hives.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;Now I like to joke that I am </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">literally</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>allergic to math</i></span>, but the truth is I was just an incredibly troubled little kid. Recurring nightmares of being chased, abducted, and buried alive plagued my dreams, and I fretted constantly about my Mom dying or one of my siblings taken by cancer or something - there was a definite Wednesday Addams vibe to my childhood. I appeared to be a normal kid, the only outward sign of my inner turmoil were the sunken eyes and dark circles earned by long, sleepless nights of worry and fear.</div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>But</i> <i>I seemed happy</i>.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I played the role of </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">happy</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">well enough to not call too much attention to my state of mental health. As long as a person </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">seems</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">reasonably happy, usually no one around them will stop long enough to notice if they're not. The thing about </span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">life is that </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">everybody's doing it all at once. </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Everyone is working really hard to navigate the rough waters of their own lives, a</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">nd that makes it kind of easy for people who are battling depression to fly under the radar. I mean, as long as you're not doing anything really batshit, like talking to a fire hydrant or eating the couch cushions, mental illness can be fairly easy to sweep under the rug. It's just one of those things that everyone knows is there, but no one has to look at or acknowledge unless they've really got the time and energy to lift the cover. As a child, I </span>seemed happy, or at least&nbsp;happy<span style="font-weight: normal;">&nbsp;enough to stay safely swept under the rug.</span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />That's the scary thing about depression. <i>It lies.</i> We know it lies to it's victims, but <i>it also lies to everyone around them</i>.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Depression is a real tricky son of a bitch. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">And that's why we've got to get better at telling the truth about it and exposing it for what it really is.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>MENTAL ILLNESS IS <i>REAL ILLNESS</i>.</b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I take an antidepressant every single day. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I also take thyroid medication every single day. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I need both to function, I need both to feel well, I need both to survive.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">No one has ever suggested that if I only prayed harder, my thyroid disease would be cured. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">No one has ever suggested that I'm clinging to sin which is causing my thyroid to malfunction. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">No one has ever suggested that I need to get right with Jesus to heal my thyroid.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">No one has ever grown uncomfortable or gone silent when I've mentioned my thyroid disorder. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Do you know how much stigma is attached to having a thyroid that misfires? ZERO STIGMA. I can talk about it at church. I can pick up my meds without getting sideways glances from old ladies. I can sleep aaaaaall daaaaay looooong because my Tsh levels are off - no one bats an eyelash. But, apparently, I'm supposed to stay quiet about depression because, apparently, the chemical imbalance that causes depression makes other people uncomfortable.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">What is this, like, 1935? Should I be shipped off “to my aunts house for the summer” while I get my shit together through electric shock therapy? <i>I don't get it. </i>What brand of hypocrisy consents to the use of medication to treat one hormone imbalance but not another? <i><b>And why are we so afraid to talk about it???</b></i></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>PEOPLE ARE DYING.</b></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">People are dying and we want to keep their problems swept under the rug.</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Well, it's time to pull back the cover. It's time to give people the space and freedom to talk openly about depression without stigma, without shame, and without embarrassment. <b>This is not a sin issue, this is not a prayer issue, this is not a faith issue – <i>it's a medical issue</i> and it should be treated like any other medical issue, with medication and/or therapy.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's time for the Church to remove the stigma it has largely created around depression and other mental illness by acknowledging the truth that mental illness is <i>a real thing</i> and can oftentimes be treated by modern medicine. Then we can quit skirting our responsibility as prayer warriors, and peace makers, and care givers, by extending our hands to the hurting and the vulnerable among us and walking with them toward true health and wellbeing. Even if it makes us uncomfortable. Even if we never receive their gratitude. Even if we don't understand their pain. And even if, in the end, we fail to relieve them of their torment and lose them.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">No matter how hard we try, or how present we are, we won't always win this battle for the people we love. Sometimes depression is a fatal disease... <i>and that is not your fault.</i><i style="font-weight: bold;">&nbsp;</i>It's complicated, I know. But sometimes the best you can do when you Love someone who is slipping away is point them toward hope <i><u>and</u></i>&nbsp;healing, and then be there to pick up the pieces.&nbsp;</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Whether you are afflicted yourself, our you have a friend or loved one who struggles with it, depression is nothing to be ashamed of. For me, most of the time, it's honestly no big deal (because PILLS). I'm just so grateful that God created humans with brains that can get kind of screwy but that are also smart enough to figure out how to set them straight. How cool is that?!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As we reflect on these lives lost to suicide as a result of depression, we can resolve to do something different. Sadly, it won't bring back the dead, but it might save someone else from the pain of having to say goodbye too soon.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><h3><b>WE CAN TALK ABOUT IT.</b>&nbsp;</h3><div><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's crucial that we open up the line of communication on this <i>weirdly</i> taboo subject. It's time for those of us who struggle with mental illness to quit hiding it, and those of us who don't to quit acting scandalized by it.&nbsp;</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>People are in desperate need of help and they shouldn't be afraid to reach out and get it.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Just talk about it...</i>&nbsp; End the stigma of depression and save lives.&nbsp;</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F1.bp.blogspot.com%252F-KuTgkgGywh8%252FVK2jkb9VKvI%252FAAAAAAAAB_Y%252FdwLL7wW8zhw%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-01-07%25252Bat%25252B1.21.37%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 32px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 420px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D6918305754409517229%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&amp;media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F1.bp.blogspot.com%252F-KuTgkgGywh8%252FVK2jkb9VKvI%252FAAAAAAAAB_Y%252FdwLL7wW8zhw%252Fs1600%252FScreen%25252BShot%25252B2015-01-07%25252Bat%25252B1.21.37%25252BPM.png%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&amp;xm=h&amp;xv=sa1.35&amp;description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 32px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 420px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6918305754409517229" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6918305754409517229" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/NbhNLkRpgAE" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/NbhNLkRpgAE/depression-is-not-scandal.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2015/01/depression-is-not-scandal.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6918305754409517229.post-8502339994864975482Thu, 01 Jan 2015 01:12:00 +00002015-01-07T13:59:09.600-08:00This is A Traumatic New Years Eve Awakening<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So. It's New Years Eve and I don't do resolutions, like ever, but today when I was getting dressed at noon, <span style="font-style: normal;">something awful happened</span><i>...something truly terrible...</i>and it forced me take a long, hard look in the mirror. What I saw in my own reflection made me take stock of my entire life, my choices, my habits, my behaviors, my desires for the future. It made me ask myself deep philosophical questions about my own existence. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I stood there for a long time, stunned, confronted with a reality I wasn't sure I could handle, but that I certainly couldn't deny. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I gazed from this angle and that, squinting my eyes, bringing the truth into focus – and I was desperate to convince myself that I couldn't possibly be seeing what I was seeing...it just couldn't be true... but the mirror does not lie, my friends.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I suppose I already knew the truth, even before I faced it. I heard the noise. I felt the breeze. Moments before, as I pulled on my jeans, freshly washed and snug fitting, I was aware of the distinct “POP” and the jarring “RiiiiiiP”. I was cognizant of an unusual rush of cool air where no draft belongs.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The mirror only confirmed what, in my heart, I already knew... </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><b>I split my pants.</b></i><br /><a name='more'></a><i><b> </b></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Let that sink in for a minute... <b>I... SPLIT...MY...PANTS</b>. …As in, the strain of holding my ass inside of my jeans became too great, and they just gave way. They broke like a denim dam, letting their contents spill freely into the world.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I was completely exposed.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I mean, like, literally and figuratively <i>exposed</i>. Obviously, I was exposed to the harsh elements of winter by jeans that could no longer carry an unbearable load. But I was also exposed as a person of little discipline, an over-indulger, a glutton, an excuse maker, a woman who in the feasting month of December may have falsely claimed a solid 15 days of insatiable PMS hunger and declared Holiday Parties fair game for non-stop noshing.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Scholars may disagree, but I think that if you split your jeans on New Years Eve it's practically a sign from God that change is necessary.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Just the other day, I was commiserating with a friend about the little layer of fluff I've managed to add between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I said to her, “You know, self-control is a fruit of the Spirit.” and we shared a guilty laugh and then I ate a cheesecake. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So today, when MY PANTS BURST OPEN, I feel like maybe it was a teeny tiny bit of the wrath of God, saying, “I will not be mocked.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Lesson learned. </i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In fear and trembling, and with sincere repentance, I did the only thing I could think of; <a href="http://semiproper.com/adios-2014/" target="_blank">I texted my hero/friend/DietBet buddy, Roo</a>!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWlt9ez9A3Y/VKSdmm7ubkI/AAAAAAAAB_I/3XxhLoh_GaA/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-31%2Bat%2B5.05.26%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWlt9ez9A3Y/VKSdmm7ubkI/AAAAAAAAB_I/3XxhLoh_GaA/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-31%2Bat%2B5.05.26%2BPM.png" height="640" width="553" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Because DUH!!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A few months ago, Roo and I invited our communities to join us in a fun little bet to shed a few pounds and together we all lost 4,300lbs (!!!) and we split a $23,000 pot (!!!). So fun!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Oh. And the best part is that at the end of the DietBet, MY FREAKING PANTS FIT!!!!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So here we go again – Roo and I are hosting the <a href="http://www.dietbetter.com/games/57243" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Adios 2014, Sup 2015 Dietbet</a> – Add $35 to the pot and join us for fun and encouragement and as we practice the art of Self-Control. <span style="font-size: x-small;">(This just accidentally on purpose turned into a sponsored post.)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.dietbetter.com/games/57243" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">CLICK HERE TO COME MAKE MONEY AND LOSE FAT WITH US!!!</a></h3><div><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So, today, for the first time in a very long time I'm making a New Years Resolution: In 2015, I resolve to have a butt that fits in my pants.... but mostly, to build a character of self-control.&nbsp;</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">CHEERS!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~4/WymcS0shWlU" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/JamieTheVeryWorstMissionary/~3/WymcS0shWlU/so.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary)http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2014/12/so.html